Midnight Friends
by KingCanute
Summary: Rockstar AU. [Sequel to Even Such Is Time] They were going to be friends. That had already been decided. It wasn't exactly a difficult concept to grasp. Clara and John spend ten days alone on the Isle of Skye. Being friends. Just friends.
1. Midnight Friends

**A/N: Hello! This story is a sequel to its prequel, Even Such Is Time. (Does that sentence even make sense? I don't know) So please read the other story first, if you haven't. I mean… Are you the type of person who would pass up an opportunity to read about an axe-wielding cat? I think based on that even less sensical* sentence—I've probably really sold you on it. Nice. I should work in marketing.**

 ***Not even a real word! I've done really well with this author's note.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Midnight Friends**

* * *

"I need to you to put Margaret Thatcher in a cage."

The words were spoken aloud to no one but herself and the subject involved. A test for the ridiculous, a sentence uttered to see if it sounded just as bad audibly shared with the real world as she was hearing it in her head.

Turns out, it did.

Clara closed her eyes, feeling amusement rush through her as she focused on the equivocal implications of the request. Aptly named, this cat. _This cat_ in regard, or more accurately, demon reincarnate—directly birthed from the infernal core of the fiery pits of Hell—stared back at her with complete impassivity.

"Please," Clara stressed, directly addressing her once again. "For once, can you just do something for me?"

The clock on the wall had just passed eleven in the evening. Five minutes ago, she had deliberately and painstakingly watched the second hand tick around to the number twelve and pass this dark winter's night into a new, later hour.

"I'm not going to lock you in it," she explained with exasperation for the third— _possibly tenth_ —time. "I just need you to prove to me that you'll go inside. So we can do this again on Tuesday. Okay?"

Margaret Thatcher 2.0 stared back at her with what could only be recognised as complete disregard or complete contempt. Both, she supposed.

"I buy you the second most expensive cat biscuits from Tesco," Clara tried again, reasoning. "I don't have to do that. I could get you the worst ones. Cardboard biscuits. Is that what you want?"

Her track record on responding to a potential threat remained at an all time low—which continued to be exactly zero. The biscuits Clara had placed within the plastic catbox to lure her in hadn't been given a moment of consideration. Unable to go anywhere within the vicinity that violated a three meter radius unless she was willing to become a victim of physical assault, Clara was now trying to force rational through the English language. Her linguistic skills in the native tongue of Hell were lacking. She made a mental note to ask her stepmother for a few key phrases next time she saw her.

"If you don't get in the cage, I will buy you cardboard biscuits."

The resulting threat was met once again with no active response. The worst part about this whole scenario, really, was that Clara was one hundred percent sure this animal had a brain capacity rivalling that of a human. The intelligence of a human but the soul of a satanic monster. Margaret Thatcher knew exactly what she was doing. Purposely lying on top of the cage, flicking her tail in a slow and goading taunt.

"I won't buy you _any_ biscuits," Clara amended, scowling. "You can live off the neighbourhood children alone."

Nothing.

Clara groaned, helpless. _"Please, please,_ don't make me do this."

In a moment that made her seriously consider using her camera to start filming the scene for reincarnation evidence, Margaret Thatcher opened her mouth and proceeded to express what was absolutely and without doubt, a _smirk._

"Fuck," she breathed, exhaling and running a hand through the back of her hair.

Clara took her phone from the kitchen bench, tapping her thumb over the screen. "You've just lost your Christmas present," she muttered in the cat's direction. She looked up at the analogue clock on the wall, watching further seconds tick by and then took a deep breath so she could groan out in frustration. This was her own fault. Which annoyed her, because usually this sort of thing would have never slipped past her avid attention to detail. The only reason she could think to explain the oversight was her insistent denial to accept that this particular animal was her responsibility now.

The longer she hesitated, the more inconvenient it was going to be. The only person she had ever met that had a chance of persuading Margaret Thatcher to reason was leaving London in the morning and she had only just realised now, at the most inconvenient of times, that if he left before she could ask him to do this, then she would literally have to risk the life of some sort of animal control employee to come around to her house, no doubt destroying her furniture and smashing some of the living room windows in the attempt to put this irascible cat in this fucking cage.

Text. She could text instead. That way if he was out, or busy, or already asleep, it wouldn't be so intrusive. An illusion of non-intrusion. She typed out the words, sent one final and scathing look towards the smug animal, and pressed send.

 _I need to you to put Margaret Thatcher in a cage._

* * *

John Smith. Clara hadn't seen John Smith in eight days. Somewhere bordering in the realms of one hundred and ninety two hours. The two of them had agreed, at three in the morning during the aftermath of her best friends' wedding to spend a week apart. Well, ten days, to be more accurate. For space. For breathing room and thinking time, and whatever else they had honourably decided would be an appropriate next step for the absolute mess that they had landed themselves in.

Clara knew it was the right thing to have done, yet she had long started questioning what the hell the morally righteous point of it all was. One hundred and ninety two hours had gone by, and she was rather sure by this stage, she'd spent at least one hundred and ninety two of those hours thinking about him.

Friends. They had agreed they were going to be friends—friends that who after three weeks of being aware each other existed, were quietly adamant to embark on a trip to a _very-modern-with-four-walls_ cottage on the western reaches of Scotland, situated somewhere within the Isle of Skye. Ten days. Seven of stasis and a combined three of travel time. That had seemed reasonable when asked how long she would like to accompany him on whatever they were intent to label this trip. Holiday? Retreat? Literal Escape From The British Media?

He was driving up earlier, with the request of needing to spend a full day in Glasgow, and Clara had suggested she could just fly up the following day. She outright refused to let him buy her a plane ticket and was grateful that he easily conceded on the matter when he told her he would pay for it. The flight would arrive at ten in the morning and he would meet her at the airport.

Simple. Except for the cat. She'd forgotten about the cat. Amy and Rory were going to look after the cat, a request that had been first met with outright horror, followed by an automatic— _you are fucking kidding me, absolutely not, what sort of friend would do something like this to us—_ before finally conceding with a begrudging acceptance.

Doorbell. Her elusive and meandering thoughts interrupted, Clara rose from the couch, heart leaping immediately to her throat. She brushed down her hair as nerves washed through her body, prickling her skin and sending tendrils of heat and apprehension to tighten around her veins. She wiped her palms on her shirt, trying to calm down as she made her way to the door.

This image of him she'd had in her head for one hundred and ninety two hours was rendered utterly obsolete in the following second she saw him.

 _John._

The man forever written into this country. The face that everyone knew, the voice that everyone recognised, the songs that everyone could sing. John Smith, the Doctor. The Doctor, John Smith. The man who just over one week ago had caused utter havoc live on national radio. Who she had admitted her consuming and early grief to. Who liked arcane science and could do a very convincing American accent. Writer of Britain's most popular love anthem, only to confess solely to her that— _actually, Clara, it's about a dog called Winston_ —and then had proceeded to confess to the nation that he was rather, well, in his opinion _—fucked._

Dressed in his customary black jumper with the sporadic holes. Black jeans and boots. Grey coat. Silver hair speckled through with further black, piled as messy curls upon a recent haircut. Dark eyes that glittered in the yellow light from the hallway. Hands by his sides.

Her resolve failed her completely in the actuality of his presence and she found herself paralysed. She didn't know what to do. Her decisiveness froze. Hug. She wanted to hug him. Put her arms around his shoulders and her head on his chest, and breathe in the ceaseless warmth he emitted. She wanted his hands on her skin, trailing heat and pleasure and care. She never wanted to let him out of her sight again.

And all of that, all of whatever _that_ was _—_ wasn't what she had agreed to. Friends. They were going to be friends.

 _Friends._

It was a fucking joke, she mused almost bitterly as she stared at him. How _the fuck_ was she supposed to be just friends with this man. When he made her feel like this. When she had spent one hundred and ninety two hours regretting ever having suggested the idea. And of course he had accepted it, and would adhere to her wishes, and would probably do absolutely anything she asked of him. Including driving across the city and showing up at her house at a time that ticked ever closer to midnight just to put a cat in a cage.

"Hi," John greeted quietly, raising his hand a little awkwardly as she continued her ceaseless stare.

"Hi," she repeated automatically, and then exhaled a discreet sigh of defeat as she blinked her way back into reality.

"Animal Control at your service," he murmured, touching a hand to his temple in salute.

"I'm going—I'm going to need a discount." Clara forced herself to focus on creating proper sentences. "I only have about five quid in cash on me."

"I take credit."

A smile extended on his lips. Oh, she had missed this expression. No one smiled like he did. The rare curve that he expressed around her. Lines that pushed on his eyes, touch of a dimple in his cheeks. Distracted again, her heart raced and she had to swallow down her familiar reaction.

"I should warn you I'm very expensive after hours," he was explaining. "Fifty pounds a minute."

"That's a bit… extortionist."

"Non-competitive rates. You'll be hard pushed to find anyone else in this city willing to deal with Margaret Thatcher. I might be your only option."

"I can't afford you," she murmured, playing along and watching him take off his coat.

"Complementary service then. Just once."

She found his eyes difficult to read, not always being a reflection of his expression. Now was one of those times. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. Grey with the secondary shifting colours, blues and greens in their swirling pools, fixing her with the type of intensity that made her both want to look away and never take her eyes off him again.

 _You're so beautiful—_

She had said that to him. A sentiment that could have sounded superficial but she barely meant it about his appearance. He was, but he just _felt_ beautiful. The words lingered in her mouth, asking to be repeated. She bit into her tongue and escorted him into the living room as he tilted his head and smiled curiously at her suspended silent and watchful state.

Margaret Thatcher twisted her head as she was greeted by her visitor.

"Hello, Maggie," John murmured, crouching in front of the cage. His smile extended to the cat, genuine in the soft expression as he gave her his fixated attention. He held his hand carefully out in front of her and let his fingers be inspected. Her tail flicked and then she opened her mouth in a wide and carefree yawn, flashing every single one of her sharp teeth. With calm control, John slid fingers into her grey fur, scratching the side of her face. Margaret Thatcher growled with disgruntled pleasure and began nudging and leaning into hand.

Clara sighed, annoyed. The cat who hated every living creature she had ever met with the exception of John Smith. The sight was disconcerting.

"Has Clara been annoying you?" he asked in a voice loud enough for her to hear. He leant his ear down towards the cat's mouth and began nodding. "Mmm. I know. She does do that. Awful. I don't know how you put up with it."

Clara frowned and crossed her arms, trying to look unimpressed. A grin pressed on his mouth and he turned away to hide it. His voice dropped and he began whispering indistinct speech into Margaret Thatcher's ear. John slid his hands under her body, lifting her gently and without resistance from the sprawled position and carefully escorted her into the cage. He kept his hand inside, patting with reassurance and then slowly shut and locked the bars. Margaret Thatcher gave a mournful yowl but seemed to accept the situation. Astonished, Clara raised her eyebrows and exhaled a breath of disbelieving amusement. John gave her a wide and rather pleased grin.

"In the words of Kanye," he said seriously, "I am a God."

Clara blinked twice. "Okay. There's a lot going on with that sentence. I don't even know where to start."

He smiled, pushing fingers through his curls. "Considering a genre change," he muttered with a smile, standing and yawning, hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she frowned, guilty again at how late it was. "I didn't think this through."

He shook his head quickly, smiling. "Please don't apologise. I'm not really that tired. After ten o'clock reflex." His gaze shifted back to the box. "I guess… we need to go and drop her off now? Can't leave a grumpy cat in a cage."

"Yeah," she sighed with a helpless smile, another glance at the clock. "Oh my god. They're quite literally going to kill me."

"I'm probably higher up Amy's list than you."

"Mmm. I'll do my best to protect you."

December had begun, the usual operation of continuing to be unnecessarily merciless and harsh. Air that was a sear across her lungs, cold that didn't seem to care if she was wearing extra layers of material. It seeped through the fibres, clawing at her skin, desperate and adamant to find bones to wrap its frozen grip around.

John strapped the cage into the backseat and climbed in the driver side as Clara put her seatbelt on. He started the ignition and familiar voices filled the car. She had no idea who was talking but the tone was instantly recognisable.

"You traitor," Clara grinned, pointing at the stereo. "Radio 4?"

"I had it on Radio X before that, too," he admitted, smiling as he pulled out from the curb. "Someone started talking about me so I had to switch."

Clara gave him the directions to Amy and Rory's house. A quick drive, ten minutes at the most. Behind her, Margaret Thatcher yowled and Clara twisted to check she was all right. "Road trip," she explained through the bars.

"We could always take her with us instead, Clara," John suggested, lifting his shoulders. "To Skye?"

"You can only take one of us."

"I'd get a lot less derision with Margaret Thatcher, I think."

"I'm nice to you," Clara contended in a murmur. "Sort of."

He flashed her a quick smile and turned his silent response back to the road. She couldn't recall a time listening to Radio 4 this late at night. She assumed with a small smile that the shipping forecast would begin shortly, probably followed by a loud ringing of bells from a parish church.

"What's your employment status?" John asked quietly, hesitant as he glanced at her.

Clara inhaled and then let her breath out slowly, enjoying the warmth from the heaters. "Let's not talk about it," she sighed. "It's complicated. I'll tell you when it's not midnight."

He nodded slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. Outside, the endless rows of brick housing slid past in a repetitive, hypnotic blur, illuminated briefly under the dispersed streetlamps.

"What time are you leaving in the morning?" she questioned, tearing her gaze away.

He glanced at the dash clock. "Eight? I wanted to see Chloe in the afternoon. She has school the next day." His fingers tapped over the wheel. "If you were looking to recruit new members for our criminal enterprise, this kid should be on the consideration list." John shook his head, smiling slightly to himself. "She's crazy."

"I'll keep it in mind. Suppose I'll need a replacement XO once you have your inevitable downfall."

He mumbled a low response. "Thought I might have already done that."

Clara directed him through a set of lights and a right turn. His left hand rested on his thigh, drawing small lines on his jeans; the right with fingers curled around the bottom of the steering wheel. Far from the standard practice in terms of health and safety. She smiled and switched her gaze back to watch the blurring houses.

"I'm meeting Hamish on Tuesday," John swallowed, interrupting her vacant stare and scrubbing fingers quickly through the side of his hair. "I haven't seen him in about six months."

Clara nodded, partly already having assumed that would be something he may have been doing when he had told her he needed an extended day in Glasgow.

"Eddie," he continued. "I saw Ed on Wednesday."

The others. His best friends. The other two who joined him on stage. She had spent a lot of time over the last week schooling herself on _the band._

"Okay?" she murmured, watching him.

"Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "Everyone's been very…" He trailed off and gave her a small smile. Blinking. He turned his eyes back to the road.

Radio 4 filled the gap and Clara listened absently to the midnight news, the distant, significant or fleeting events that might or might not have been affecting her immediate life as the illusionary lines of Sunday transformed into Monday.

The return of the cold snapped Clara out of the drifting state and she pressed purposely and repetitively on the doorbell to make the sound even more annoying to her sleeping friends inside. She was already amused about the reaction she was about to get.

Rory, in only pants and a t-shirt, eventually opened the door, mouth in the final stages of a yawn as he squinted suspiciously at her. "Clara?"

"Evening."

Her friend blinked through blurry eyes, clearly having just been dragged from unconsciousness, and then realised she wasn't alone. "Oh, hi. It's the Doctor. Hello."

"Morning."

"Right. Hi. I'm in my pants. Ah… Are you two all right?" he asked in confusion, concern starting to cross over his sleepy expression as he became a little more alert.

"Fine," Clara explained with a careful smile. "We're just here to drop off… a cat." She pointed slowly at the plastic catbox beside John's feet.

Rory's gaze drifted to down to the indicated direction. He stared blankly for a few seconds and then his eyes widened with realisation. "Clara," he murmured, beginning to shake his head in horror. "Clara… Oh, no. It's Sunday. You said Tuesday. _Tuesday."_

"It's technically Monday now," John corrected unhelpfully as Rory continued in his growing understanding to what was happening.

"No, no, no. Come back on Tuesday with it." His face began shifting into something that was a little more representative of disgusted dismay. "We're not prepared yet. We haven't finished getting emotionally prepared. Clara. Seriously. No."

Amy appeared suddenly at Rory's shoulder, leaning against the doorframe. "Huh?" she greeted with tired and disgruntled eyes before she noted who had woken her up. "Oswald. Everything okay?"

"Ah…" Clara trailed, smiling. "Yes. Just a casual visit. To say hello. Haven't seen you in awhile. You know how it is."

"It's three in the morning."

"It's actually only just past twelve," John amended, frowning.

Amy shifted her sleepy gaze to stare at him. "Hi."

"Hello."

"Why're _you_ here?"

"You're going to love this, Amy," Rory said blankly. "Look what they've brought us."

Amy stared down to the catbox. She blinked slowly and then raised her eyes to fix Clara with a pleasant smile. "Well. Lovely to see you both. Thanks for stopping by."

She pulled Rory backwards and the door was slammed in their faces.

Clara exhaled in weary amusement before giving John an apologetic smile. "Sorry," she sighed, slowly bending her knees to take a seat on the doorstep. The outside light flared in her eyes as she looked up.

"Are they… Are they coming back?"

Clara grinned at his rippling confusion, sighing again and pulling her coat a little tighter around her neck, annoyed now she hadn't brought a scarf. "Yeah. Give it a few minutes."

"Are you sure?"

"Mmm. Just me and Amy's silly game. She had this boyfriend I didn't like when we lived together, and I used to answer the door to him like that." Clara smiled weakly. "We've continued to do it to each other ever since. The longest I've ever had to wait is two hours. Although, in that situation, we were actually angry at each other and so I just waited out of stubbornness. You might want to sit down."

"Right." John joined her and pulled the catbox a little closer. "Well, we'd probably die of exposure before then anyway."

"At least we get the moral high ground."

John nodded slowly and gave her a tiny smile. He peered into the cage, pressing fingers through the bars. Clara could see Margaret Thatcher's shadow press against them as she expressed a quiet meow.

"The collective noun for cats is clowder," John told her slowly. "A clowder of cats."

Clara wiped a hand over her mouth, smiling. Interesting. "I don't think I knew that." She hummed. "You don't really see a group of cats together. What constitutes a group?"

"By definition—two."

"Okay. So, next time I see a pair of cats, I can say, 'there's a clowder of cats'."

"Yeah," he smiled.

"I am never going to say that."

"What if there's three cats?"

"Wow, look, there's three cats," she grinned, pressing down the following smirk.

"Four?"

"Cat army."

"Five?"

"The Planet of the Apes plotline, but instead with cats."

A small laugh escaped his lips. "Six—"

"Okay, stop," she cut in with a grin. "I can't do this all night."

He matched her smile, ducking his head. "I was in Malta once. There was a park by the water full of cats. I sat in the middle of the grass and they all surrounded me. Seriously—about fifteen of them. I was the cat God. The feline population exceeds the human in that country, I think."

"Would Margaret Thatcher be their ruler if I deported her?"

"Mmm. Probably. But she'd just end up privatising everything and doubling the poverty rate. Nobody wants a nineteenth century liberal in charge." He grinned. "Best to keep her in England and regulate the hell out her."

"Not possible. The hell is inherent."

He exhaled laughter and pushed his fingers back through the bars. "Don't listen to her," he whispered quietly to the growling animal. "You're lovely."

Clara scanned fond eyes over his profile and then turned her head to gaze at the door. His proximity made her heart beat at a quicker rate than what it might have been doing otherwise. "Rory must be really holding out on this one," she frowned. "He usually concedes pretty fast."

She hoped her friends were fully aware it was _December_ and probably below zero degrees. They wouldn't last very long out here. On the plus side, any wind was completely non existent. She pulled her coat tighter at the lapels, breathing out what she could summon of warm air over her hands.

"I'm divorced," John said suddenly, breaking their extended moment of silence.

Clara turned to look at him. He glanced to her before flicking his eyes back to the cage. She nodded slowly as she took in this new bit of information.

"Officially. Legally. Last Friday."

She blinked as it sunk in. "Good," she murmured finally. "I'm glad. All… okay?" She swallowed, hesitant. "With River?"

John hummed, brows creasing for a moment. His hands twisted between his knees. "She's been… incredible." A slow exhale escaped his mouth, pushing an expansion of air in front of him.

"Have you had a bad week?" Clara asked quietly, watching his shifting expression.

He gave fractional nod before pulling his coat sleeve down over his free hand. "Everyone is… rather lovely."

"You didn't expect that?"

Looking toward the road, he shook his head quickly. "No. And I don't know how to—" He stopped and swallowed, discontinuing his sentence.

She reached out instinctively for his hand before she even knew she was doing it. Her fingers pressed into the grey sleeve. "Honesty can be funny like that," she said gently. "Even if what you're saying is something they already knew, or suspected, or didn't want to hear, just the… action of speaking truth is appreciated."

John gave her another tiny, weak smile before letting his eyes fall back on the cage. Clara pulled her hand away and trapped her fingers between her knees. It was freezing.

Behind them, the door reopened and yellow light washed across the porch. Margaret Thatcher growled and put a swiping paw through the bars.

"Damn it, Clara," Amy sighed. "We honestly thought you might have left. Get the hell in here."


	2. A General Warning

**Chapter 2: A General Warning**

* * *

This kitchen had been the venue for a huge range of strange conversations at all hours of the morning. A less than sober state was usually required for one or both of them, but Clara and Amy had spent a fair share of time in this location just gossiping or problem-solving various solvable problems. They had left Rory and John in the living room to deal with escorting Margaret Thatcher into her temporary new home.

"This is funny," Amy grinned, reaching to open a cupboard for Clara so she could store the collection of the second most expensive cat biscuits. She raised a hand to cover the yawn she was speaking through. "Remember when Sean and Dom used to come round to our flat like this?"

"Mmm," Clara smiled. "I miss that."

"I should kick Rory out. You can move in."

"You'd last about three seconds before you were running down the street after him."

Amy sighed. "I know. It's almost annoying how much I like him." Her brows creased, curious. "Did you… Didn't you sleep with Dom? After that Brighton trip?"

Clara exhaled laughter. "No."

"Yes, you did. You definitely did."

"Okay. Yeah. But only once. And both of us regretted it. Did you know he got married last year?"

"Did he? Who to?"

Clara shrugged. "No idea. I ran into Cass… last month? Or month before? She told me."

Amy hummed and frowned again, contemplating. "We used to be so stupid."

"You were so much worse than me. Ricky Spencer as exhibit number one."

"All grown up now though, right? Making excellent decisions." She very purposely turned her gaze in the direction of the living room.

Clara battered her arm and her friend laughed, brushing a hand through hair.

"Intervention of the Passive Committee or whatever the fuck it's called doesn't mean I have to like him."

Clara smirked. "You're like one of those dickhead dads who passive-aggressively threatens their daughter's boyfriend by bringing out the shotgun."

"How many dads do you know in this country that have a shotgun?"

"A grand total of absolutely none."

"Is he your boyfriend then?" Amy queried, raising her eyebrows.

"No. Of course not. Friend. Friends."

"Friends."

"Yeah."

Amy smiled, leaning back against the bench and crossing her ankles. "Midnight friends."

"Yes. Midnight friends. Hey. I'm sorry, by the way. I truly didn't mean to show up here like this. I only just realised that I didn't have any other way of getting the little demon spawn here before he goes in the morning."

Amy returned a further warm smile. "No, it's good actually. I wanted to see you before you left."

"Can you not come round tomorrow? Today."

Amy shook her head. "No. I was going to break that news disaster to you in about"—She squinted at the wall clock—"nine hours." Her friend yawned again. "Shit. I've got to be up at six."

Clara grinned and opened the cutlery drawer to put away the sporadic forks abandoned in the dishrack. "Work?"

Amy pulled a face. "Yeah. I have to stay in town this evening," she sighed. "God. Everyone's sick. Feels like we're understaffed. To the point where Kathy's going to start asking us to write sports."

Her friend frowned, regret flashing over her features. "Clara, honestly. I should have made time for you last week. I'm sorry I haven't been around."

"It's fine," she assured. "Course. Are you all right?"

"Am _I_ all right?" Amy smiled, raising her eyebrows at her and breathing out laughter. "Yeah. Don't worry about me."

"I do worry about you."

"It's just work." Stretching arms out in front of her, she blinked sleepy eyes. "Deadlines. Always like this at the end of the year, I suppose. I'm stressed. Dad's been a bit ill as well this week."

Clara frowned. "Has he? What's wrong?"

"Mmm, nothing major," she replied, shaking her head. "Just winter flu. Think it hit him harder because of that chest infection a few months ago. Mum's needed some help so I've been staying over."

She gave Clara a weak smile. "I'm really looking forward to this fucking year to be over."

"Same," she murmured, agreeing quietly, feeling the weight of the last two months pass between them.

Amy regarded her with a more searching gaze. "You look… better," she said slowly, scanning over her eyes. "Like you've had some sleep, at least. Yeah?"

Clara breathed out a little. "Sort of. It's helped not having to get up so early for work."

"Good. Getting bored of the luxury of having to do nothing?"

"Not really," she smiled, trailing fingers over her jaw in thought. "Or not yet. I thought I would hate it. But it's actually been pretty good. If I start doing jigsaw puzzles you should probably be concerned though."

Amy took a deep breath, eyes flickering toward the kitchen door. "Did you see him this week? Last week, I mean."

Clara shook her head slowly.

"Feeling all right?"

She paused, frowning slightly as she considered her response. "He just told me he's divorced."

Amy smiled carefully. "Excellent timing."

"Amy," she said cautiously at the implications clearly evident in that remark.

"Well, it is," she defended, lifting her shoulders. "Is he okay? He's had a hell of a time in the media. Well, both of you obviously. And River, too. Not just in the tabs, I mean, but in the big wide multi-media sphere." A grin touched her mouth. "Not surprisingly. But it's gone into the stage where everyone under the sun wants to share their opinion. Which is good, actually, because I'll tell you what—regret what you did or not—that fucking show-down was the best thing he's ever done for himself." Amy shook her head, smiling with a little incredulity. "For you, too. Rory said you were avoiding it. But you should read some of this stuff, Clara. Not yet. I'll save you some pieces. There's such a brilliant dialogue open at the moment. Still have campers outside your place?"

"Yeah," she frowned. "Only in the mornings and late afternoons now though. I haven't needed to go anywhere, so it doesn't matter too much. Can always jump over the fence. They haven't clocked on to that yet."

"Probably should start trying to get used to it, I suppose."

"Having people following me?" She shook her head. "How long have I got?"

"What—till everyone drops it completely?"

"Yeah."

"Never." Amy shrugged like it was obvious.

" _Never?"_

Amy nodded. "Probably another week or so in mainstream, more in tabloids. And then you're going to be questioned about this for the rest of your life."

"The rest of my life," she repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes at her friend's choice of wording.

"The rest of your life, or however long you decide it's appropriate for your relationship to last with the man currently in my living room unleashing the actual—what's that villain from that comic book film we saw where that girl gets possessed by a witch or something and looks like that other girl from that other film where she's climbing up the side of a well? The magic one. With red eyes."

"Amy. They're not going to be interested in me… _forever."_

This was an issue she hadn't at all thought about.

"Clara," Amy frowned, leaning further onto the bench so she was more in her eyeline. "He's not just any celebrity. You understand that, right? I mean, the height of fame has probably already passed in terms of his career, but he's long surpassed the point for it to be a fleeting obsession. His music is too much of a cultural foundation for us to ever let that go. This is for life."

Clara spent a moment holding her gaze and then exhaled. "This is way too deep for three in the morning."

"Mmm, yeah. Suppose." Her friend sighed, looking a little concerned. "I've just been saturated in it all week. Christ. Can I just… Clara. I know it's early. With him. But don't… don't push this aside. If I were you I wouldn't start off by trying to avoid how much this will affect you. I wouldn't have a clue how you're supposed to deal with it, but Ianto's probably the best person to talk to. He might have some advice. Yeah?"

Clara nodded slowly. "You're probably right. But I just need to do one thing at a time."

"I get it. It's early. Are you okay though? About this trip?"

She breathed out, tapping fingers against the bench. "Honestly? I wouldn't be going if I didn't feel completely good about it. Do you know what I mean? Not about the situation, but about… him. So, yeah. Really good."

A grin touched her friend's lips. "I know. But it's just… Friends?"

"Friends," she confirmed, _firmly._

"Friends," Amy repeated slowly.

Clara narrowed her eyes. "Just friends."

"Just friends."

"Stop saying 'friends'."

A further smile continued curving Amy's mouth. "Well. That being said… Sex holiday."

Clara almost choked on the air she breathing in. "No!" She shook her head quickly. "It's not that. That's not what he's thinking. That's not what I'm doing."

"Obviously," Amy reasoned, smiling at the response. "No—seriously. I know that's not what he's thinking. But he is definitely thinking that."

"You just contradicted yourself three times."

"Come off it, Clara. There's absolutely no way you two are spending seven days alone in some secluded house in the middle of nowhere and not thinking about it. He clearly has admirable intentions. I'm not disputing that. I'm just—"

"Just warning me?" Clara cut in, narrowing her eyes again.

"Just a general warning, yeah," Amy grinned. "Didn't really need to. You've already been thinking about it."

"So, you're just letting me know that _you_ know?" Clara exhaled with amusement.

"Mmm. Just stating the obvious, I suppose. Third-party confirmation."

"Thanks. It's not a sex holiday."

Amy gave her a pleasant smile. "Okay, Oswald. Let me know how that denial worked out when you get back."

"I won't be telling you anything."

Clara was met with a skeptical expression.

"Whatever. If you see any of Scotland other than the view from his bedroom window, I'll be surprised."

"I _definitely_ won't be telling you anything," she scowled, trying to summon whatever she had left of her ability to protest this.

"I've got an easy and foolproof way to find out if he is thinking that," Amy shrugged, grin now wide enough to show teeth.

"How?"

She laughed, warm eyes dancing over her. "You idiot. I'm pretty sure you'll figure it out. I'll ask you when you get back and you can tell me if I was right."

"What is it?"

"Oh, shut up," Amy smiled, stepping forward to wrap Clara in a hug. "I'm going to miss you. I did just spend an entire week without seeing you, I guess. But it's different when you're in another country. Can you please re-think Christmas while you're up there?"

"I've already decided."

"I know," she sighed, pulling away with a disapproving frown. "I just think you should come. I don't like your decision."

Clara smiled. "Too bad."

Amy crossed her arms, leaning back. "Yeah. Well. After all that bullshit about decision making we went through the other week, even Rory is wavering on this one. Still. You can think about it."

Her friend yawned again and glanced up at the clock. "Fuck. I need to sleep or I'm not going to make it through the day. This week is going to be hell on earth."

The two of them made their way into the hallway heading towards the living room. "I want to go to Scotland," Amy mused, wistful. "Are you flying straight to Glasgow?"

Clara nodded. "Yeah. He's picking me up."

"Shame you couldn't go to Invers. Seeing as you're in the area. Suppose it'd be a bit of a detour."

"What—and run into all your psycho-exes?"

Amy laughed. "Oh my god. I have a great story to tell you about Lochlan, on that. Tell you about it when you're back. As a trail though—I found out Tom from work slept with his sister in October."

"Fucking hell," Clara breathed in amusement. "Why does everyone in your department end up sleeping with either him or his family members? It's sort of passing the point of coincidence now. Did Jack send you that picture of Ianto on that beach today?"

"Yes," she grinned. "Glad they're also doing their best to sleep their way through the country." Amy laughed.

"Well. They've probably exhausted England now. It's only normal."

"I miss them," Amy sighed. "We won't all be in London until after new years now. Oh, hey, did you see that article Gary Eden wrote on The Wedding? Independent. I can't remember if Rory said he sent it to you."

She shook her head. "I haven't read a thing."

"Do you want to read it? It's brilliant. It has a touch on you and John, but only to focus on Jack's influence. If you want to read something, this is the one."

"Sure," Clara smiled, opening the door and leading them through. "Okay. Send it."

"Oh, fucksake," Amy growled as she watched Margaret Thatcher prowl slowly around the living room, sniffing in an overly haughty manner at the couch while John and Rory engaged in quiet chat. "I cannot believe we agreed to this."

"Is she going to claw all our furniture up?" Rory frowned, turning as they entered.

"Um… no," Clara shrugged. "Human flesh only."

"Great."

"Remember to feed her in the mornings, okay? And make sure she has lots of fresh water in that other bowl. She likes water." Clara turned to address the cat. "Goodbye, Margaret Thatcher."

No response. She sighed.

John crouched and scratched the cat's ears. "Say goodbye?"

"Why doesn't she like me?"

"That's not the right question, Clara," Rory remarked, raising his eyebrows and watching John's friendly and well received attentions through her grey fur.

Amy looked disgusted. "So weird. Right, can you two leave now so we can go back to sleep?"

"All ready out the door," Clara smiled, trailing fingers on the wall and waving her other hand at the cat in a final goodbye.

"John," Amy said as the four of them reached the doorstep. "If you fuck this up, I am going to kill you."

"Amy," Clara growled as her friend looked at her and mimed reloading a shotgun.

"Clara."

"Amy," Rory warned with a helpless smile, tilting his head to rest on her shoulder.

"Rory."

Clara exhaled laughter and Amy gave her a warm and reassuring grin before turning back to continue.

"John," she repeated. "I mean it in an entirely friendly way."

"A friendly death," he shrugged. "It's a start."

"I would be very gentle."

"I'm glad you're on a first name basis, at least," Clara frowned. "Seems promising."

John shuffled on his feet. "I thought… Well, I was thinking maybe everyone could call me John now." He swallowed, glancing toward Amy and Rory and looking a little shy. "If they wanted to. Instead of Doctor?"

A grin starting pressing on the edges of Amy's mouth and then, to Clara's surprise, Rory began doing the same. He pushed his face into Amy's shoulder to hide it. "I truly thought our divorce makeover material this week had been exceeded," he snickered, unable to help himself.

"We've been refining our jokes," Amy explained, covering her mouth. "But that should get us through another seven days. Thanks."

"Well," Clara scowled, reprimanding. "Glad we're of some comedic use to you both."

"Honestly, I think we almost have enough for a twenty minute set. We'll perform it to you when you're back."

"I can't wait," she replied slowly, watching her two friends' smirking expressions. "Have fun with Margaret Thatcher. She's been really looking forward to spending some time with you."

Both of their expressions shifted instantly into former disgust. "You owe us for this," Amy frowned. "And I mean you properly, seriously, need to start thinking about how you're going to dedicate the rest of your life paying us back."

Clara breathed out, shrugging and lifting the collar on her coat. "Whatever, Pond. See you round."

"Fuck off, Clara. Enjoy your sex holiday."

Clara could do nothing but exhale in laughing defeat, glad she had at least something to defer the awkward connotations of the second half of that comment in front of John. "We're not allowed to sign off like that anymore," she chastised, giving her a fixed smile. "Remember? I might get hit by a car."

"Oh my _god,_ we know how to push the line on appropriate humour," Amy groaned, wiping her eyes. "Imagine if we combined forces. We'd be unstoppable. Right. Goodnight. Goodbye."

Rory repeated the same and Clara began the descent of the stairs, turning to grin back at them as John hesitated, nodding and saying his quick and polite goodbye before joining her on the footpath. The door shut and the light from inside ceased on their pathway.

"Thanks, John," she sighed, blinking as they walked back to the car. The late hour was beginning to catch up with her. "I mean it. Sorry again I've dragged you out here to do this."

He shook his head and smiled at her, unconcerned. "Don't apologise. I don't really get any late night calls to come and be useful. You can ring me anytime you want. That's what… friends do. Right?"

"Right," she smiled softly. "Ah… sorry about Amy's comment just then, too." She swallowed, frowning, not entirely sure whether bringing this up was a good idea but not wanting to leave it suspended between them. "She's just being Amy. I don't know how she's allowed out in public to be honest."

"Clara," John said slowly, pausing as he opened the driver door. "Remember that time we disgraced ourselves and others live on national radio?"

"Mmm," she considered, brows drawing together. "Yeah. Okay. Good point. We also shouldn't be allowed out in public."

He stared at her from across the roof, hesitating to enter inside.

"All right?" she asked at his slightly wide eyed expression.

" _What_ the _fuck_ was I thinking, Clara?" he exclaimed in disbelief, incredulous. "Doing that? On the _radio?"_

"Really good question," she agreed, nodding, grin pressing on her mouth. "I'm, um, regretting it too. I mean, seriously regretting it. As in, we should _not_ have done that. Not because of me or you, or work, or… anything like that. But because my dad listened to it. My _dad."_

John's mouth parted slightly.

"There was way, _way_ too much detail in there for anything you would want your parent to hear."

"Ah," he replied, guilty.

"Could have… dialed it right back on all the 'please give me a rating for my sexual performance' material, don't you think?" she grinned, leaning on the door. "I had literally the most awkward conversation with him on the phone."

"Right," he agreed, frowning, tapping fingers on the roof of the car. "Yes. Yeah. Definitely didn't need to do that part."

She smiled at him, his helpless expression making her melt a little. "Drive me home?"

He swallowed and ducked inside. "Yes, boss."

Another ten minutes of Radio 4—church bells included—and they arrived back at Clara's house. John walked her to the door, pressing his hands together at his waist as she crossed the threshold and turned back to him.

"You're still okay, right?" he asked in a low voice. "About Skye?" His eyes darted over her, anxious and uneasy.

"Course," she murmured, wanting to ease his sudden slight distress. "Yes. I spent the entirety of last week learning how to speak Scottish. Wouldn't want to waste all that."

He smiled slowly, clear relief filtering into his eyes. "The trick is to make yourself barely understandable."

"What?"

The sound of his amusement at her silly quip made her smile back, a flood of warmth washing through her veins and countering the cold temperature.

"Would you like me to take anything for you in the car?" he asked, parting his hands. "So you don't have to carry so much on the plane. Wellingtons. Raincoat? All your coats? It's going to be cold. I'm taking extra coats."

She wanted to ask him to stay.

 _Stay and come upstairs._

Her eyes scanned over his tall figure. She swallowed, weakening again in front of him.

"Clara?"

There was only half a step between them. She closed the gap and pressed into him, hands curling into the hem of his jumper. She pushed her head into his chest, leaning against his sturdy and resilient figure.

"Can you stay?" she breathed out, closing her eyes. She wasn't sure if her words had been loud enough to hear, but he shifted against her as she spoke, his head lowering to her shoulder, fingers brushing tentatively at her arms. She hadn't really meant to say them.

"Clara," he swallowed, whispering. "We need… We need to be friends."

 _Friends._

He was so warm. She felt herself drifting as she breathed him in. The familiar, calming scent of his jumper and his skin. Lemongrass and the other thing that she still couldn't decide on. She'd missed him an unbelievable amount. Directly in the face of reality, it was almost disconcerting. Three weeks she had known him— _three weeks_ —and this was her instinctual reaction to being apart from him. She could feel it in her chest, the tight pull, the ache of not being close.

"Are you sleeping?" he whispered against her ear, fingers scraping phantom heat through her coat.

She didn't really know what to say, her eidetic dreams of the road and the _car_ hadn't ceased, still quite happy to wreck their havoc in her unconscious state. Less frequent, perhaps, but the thought of having to succumb to the dark made her want to panic. Afraid of going to sleep. Afraid of what she would have to see.

His hands lifted and slid around her shoulders as her non-response spread between them. "Clara, I'm—" His arms tightened, pulling her closer, surrounding her in warmth. "I don't know what to do. But I'll stay if you need me."

She felt his low, rhotic murmur wash through her. "Go," she conceded softly in defeat, sighing. "You should go. Sleep. So you can drive safely. And you should stop. For breaks? Be careful near Blackpool though. My stepmother might be prowling around the highways looking for unsuspecting prey."

She heard him breathe in, fingers digging into her back. Not letting go. He took another slow and wavering breath. It would be easy. She could ask him again. He would say yes. They could go upstairs.

 _Friends._

John pulled back and away as she stayed silent, firmly taking a step backwards. A decisive step. "Do you have anything I can take for you?"

Clara registered his previous offer and nodded, turning to go and retrieve coats and wellingtons. She passed them over as she came back to the door, stacking the pile of items in his arms. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome."

"Drive very carefully."

Nodding, he turned on the doorstep and gave her a final smile. "Fifty seven hours. See you in fifty seven hours."

Fifty seven hours. It seemed like an awfully long time to wait.


	3. Lord Of The Lake

**Chapter 3: Lord Of The Lake**

* * *

"I'm going to make you twenty one different meals," John explained as Clara twisted in the passenger seat of his car to look back again at the boxes of food he had stacked in the backseat. His black guitar case was propped in the footwell next to a small pile of novels and their wellingtons.

"Do I know how to make twenty one different meals?" he continued, copying the grin on her face. "No. I do not. I can make four. But I have this now—"

He reached somewhere into the nearest box and brought out a book.

 _The Complete Cookbook For Kids_

Clara pressed her mouth into the seat to try and stop her laughter.

"What?" he grinned, showing his teeth. "What's so funny, Clara?"

"Nothing. What. I'm not laughing."

"You're going to enjoy all twenty one. Or pretend to." He threw the book away and opened the door to get out.

They had long crossed into the Highlands of Scotland, currently three hours north of Glasgow, stopped at the edge of an expansive loch to have lunch. Clara had been to Scotland before, Edinburgh a few times, Glasgow a few more times. North of the big cities however, her experience of the Highlands was very limited.

"Do you know what this Loch's called?" John asked with a smile, pulling his arms above his head in a long stretch.

"Loch… Achmór Clàr'Bo' Sléibhe Kinardochy?"

John blinked. "Excellent nonsense Gaelic. But no." He shook his head, dropping hands into his hair. "You're giving us far too much credit."

A gleeful grin expanded his mouth. He pointed directly at the water. "Loch Lochy."

Clara laughed automatically and then gave him a crooked smile. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Lake Lakey."

"Yeah," he smirked. "How's that for effort?"

Clara looked to the south, toward the other end. It was large, perhaps five or six miles long. The two of them traversed towards the waterside, making a path over the maintained grass. It was a beautiful day, sun tentatively breaching a low position over the hills across the loch. Scattered clouds lingered in a wide stretch over the brilliant blue. The air was cold, a bite in her lungs but more refreshing than what she had expected. Sitting on the grassy edge of the water, John passed her a sandwich.

"Straight from the more inventive mind of a thirteen year old Scot," he explained, peeling back the corner of his, frowning curiously. "Lettuce… something yellow. Sprouts?" He shrugged, unconcerned. "Could be anything. Mystery sandwich. Be careful.

"Ah, Chloe wanted you have this, too." He plucked a post-it note from the carrier box and handed it over.

 _Can you please get Uncle John to buy me a new phone?  
_ _Thanks ! xxxx ! x_

"Don't be fooled by all the exclamation marks and x's," he spoke through a bite of mystery sandwich. "Pure manipulation."

Clara grinned and pocketed the note, watching his fond smile and made a start on her own sandwich. John drew his heels towards him, propping his elbows on his knees, scanning eyes over the water.

"The regret you're feeling about what happened on the radio because your dad listened to it?" he questioned, glancing at her. "Well… mine is worse. Much worse."

She breathed out helplessly, realising what he was about to say.

"Uncle John And His Embarrassingly Overdramatic Meltdown. She wanted you to know her favourite parts were the complaints about my 'not normal house with the big gate', and all threats to throw me out the window."

"Right." Clara raised her eyebrows, not exactly sure how to deal with this situation. "Jesus. We, ah…" She pulled a face, powerless. "Shouldn't have done… all that."

"I feel like I should be embarrassed about it," he admitted, smiling slightly. "I don't mean as to what I said. But doing in that way. I don't seem to be managing to sustain it, however.

"Do you...?" he asked quietly, trailing the sentence away.

"Yeah, I still have a job," she sighed, understanding what he was implying. "I actually… I've actually been offered a promotion."

"What?" he said slowly, the sandwich travelling to his mouth stopping in mid air, disbelief clearly evident in his tone even though his question had been purposely skewed in the more optimistic way of asking whether she had been fired.

"I know. It's rather unexpected."

"But… Clara," he stressed, mouth dropping open. "Clara. I was about to offer to pay your rent for the entire year, or forever, or buy you a house. And pay all your expenses. And buy you food. What else do you need?"

Clara gave him a blank, bordering-on-unimpressed, stare. "Why don't I just give you my bank details and you can transfer your entire account into mine."

"Okay."

"What—no," she frowned in annoyance, shaking her head when his expression or tone didn't alter from the serious nature it was fixed in.

John shrugged and gave her an insouciant smile.

"I haven't looked at anything that's been written about us in the last week," Clara went on. "I'm not really… interested. At all. But Rory's given me some basic information. You probably know more than me. But for the station… it's obliterated the podcast charts by… I don't know. There's no competition for miles. Rory said the backlash at the possibility of not releasing it to the public the next day was about enough to start a coup."

"Licence-payers want what they pay for," he murmured, taking an absent bite.

"Mmm. I mean, on the other hand, it quite rightly now holds the record for the most amount of profanity complaints."

John snickered. "You started it."

" _You_ started it."

"You called me a bastard within about sixty seconds," he grinned.

Clara opened her mouth to retaliate and then realised he was right. "Good point. Shit, I started it. Great."

Her frown shifted into something a little more resemblant of a smirk. "Jack is furious at you by the way. Disaster Thursday has well exceeded Wedding Saturday in the charts. Number one and number two."

"It was only ever my intention to upstage Jack Harkness at his own game."

She scanned her eyes over the side of his face. The remnants of the punch Jack had delivered were almost gone. A slight discolouration lingered on his cheek, the red mark fading back into the pale hue of his skin.

"I'd just… keep away for awhile," she recommended. "For safety."

John smiled, a hint of his own pressing smirk as he noted her inspection on his face. "Clara. I'd win if we fought for real."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're very confident."

"Jack's heavier, but I'd be faster. All that muscle? Just for show. He doesn't know how to fight." He looked rather pleased at the idea, chewing slowly with a grin. "He would've been in trouble if he had gone in a second time."

Clara offered him an unimpressed glare. "I hope you two never have to prove that to each other."

"Would Jack prefer being taken to the NHS or a private hospital?"

"Stop advocating violence on my friends," she growled, trying to stay serious.

" _Friend,"_ he corrected.

"I'll set Amy on you," she threatened with a tiny smirk.

John open his mouth to retaliate but then paused. "There's a fight I'm not sure I would win."

Taking a breath, Clara continued as he turned back to his lunch. "If I look at the whole thing from a third-party perspective, I can see it a lot differently. In terms of you… because of who you are, and from the viewpoint of an interview, it was incredible. Entertainment wise… well, I'm not exactly about to listen back, but I imagine it was quite interesting." She shrugged. "But it's not just that in consideration. We did eleven months of simply a really good show."

Clara exhaled, frowning. She paused for a moment to eat. "Anyway. It's only… a radio show. The swearing for offence? Not great. Jack's personal slander at Sharon Lowles? Also not great. But the rest was directed entirely at you. I should be fired. Resoundingly fired for letting that happen. Michelle, my boss—"

"Who I blackmailed," John acknowledged quietly with a frown.

"Yeah. She… really likes me. I feel awful about the position we put her in. But she understands, too, I think. What was going on."

Clara sighed again, staring down to the bread in her hands. "Maybe if the majority public opinion was the opposite of what it is, then the outcome would be different. But it's… Well. Whatever it is. I am keeping away from it. Jack and I did have to issue apology statements though. I got Rory to write mine. I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to say."

"I've read them," John admitted, glancing to her.

"You have? What does mine say?"

He exhaled amusement. "Generic, dull bullshit. I did actually imagine you would be a more of a creative writer than that. Rory didn't put a lot of effort into making it interesting."

She smiled. "Good."

"Just sincere enough to please anyone who was offended, and boring enough to be insincere."

"Perfect," she grinned. "Exactly what I was after."

"Donna wrote mine. Well, it wasn't really an apology. More of a statement. You should have seen her last week," he grinned, suddenly the embodiment of smug. "Her favourite week in thirteen years."

"I did," Clara said through her sandwich. "She came round to my house."

"What?" Surprise flashed in his eyes and then he frowned. "She didn't tell me that."

Clara smirked a little at his disgruntled expression. "Did she have to?"

"Well… no." He shifted slightly on the bank. "What did she want?"

"Nothing. She just wanted to see if I was all right. And then told me embarrassing stories about you."

His eyebrows furrowed further. "What embarrassing stories?"

"There was an excellent one involving an American airport and an American airport employee."

John threw a stone into the loch, glaring at the water like it had become the source of all his problems. "Okay. Well. That's the end of her employment with me then. Someone had to lose their job out of this."

Clara laughed at his scowling expression until it transformed back into a less displeased manner.

"I'm the one who should be fired. I don't deserve this. I was going to reject it entirely. Resign instead. Rory sort of… talked me out of an immediate decision. Jack, too.

"We've been offered—" Clara exhaled a breath of incredulous laughter, sending her gaze back out over the loch. "Saturday mornings. The three of us. Which is unbelievable."

John raised his eyebrows, mouth parting slightly in surprise.

"I always wanted to work in radio," she murmured, brushing a blade of grass from her knee. "Even when I was a kid. And I'm excellent at my job, too."

John smiled and she grinned at him, aware of the irony. "Prior to two weeks ago, I was excellent at my job. Mum and Dad always used to have Radio 4 on in the mornings when I was a kid. I like… stories. And those lingering fragments of a sentence, or a word, a joke… You feel it in your chest. A good feeling. The relationship between who's speaking and the people that listen has always fascinated me. The intensity of connection you can feel for someone you've never met, but have heard speak for years is… I don't know. Sort of… difficult to express."

Clara ran her hand over the ground beside her, staring down to the earth. "I've wanted this with Jack since I first met him. That was always my plan, to get offered this with him. He's been hesitant in the past about pursuing it because of the time commitment. But now, I'm guessing that faced with the actual offer, his massive ego has taken over. He's onboard."

She wiped fingers over her jaw. "He's done primetime radio before, but I always thought I could make him excel in a different way to what he'd done previously. Which I think is what we achieved last year."

Clara swallowed, a little shy as her voice lowered. "I'm so proud of The Wedding. Lots of producers have chaotic, impulsive shows. But we really made something special in the last nine months. And it overshadows what happened with me and you.

"We haven't accepted yet. We'd start broadcasting in late January. Jack won't say yes without me, so I have this week to decide. They want to announce it while this is all still headline worthy news.

"So," she finished, giving him a small smile. "All's well. Sort of. I just have to say yes."

His gentle, curious gaze scanned over her expression. "Are you going to say yes?"

"Yes."

"Why the delay?"

"Playing hard to get."

He smiled, his eyes flashing with darkening humour.

"I mean… after that performance," she reasoned with a grim smile, "I'm amazed I haven't had all the commercial stations offering me work. So, yes. I'm going to say yes." Clara sighed, scrubbing over her brow and lowering her voice. "I'm also having a little bit of trouble accepting empathy."

John leaned into her shoulder for a moment, keeping his eyes on the loch. "I'm very glad I haven't ruined your career."

"You could argue that you've actually sort of improved it."

"Mmm. I have, haven't I…" He hummed again and turned his gaze on her. "Interesting. I would have paid your rent in anycase."

Clara sighed and then gave him a pleasant smile. "And I would have told you to fuck off."

"I already contribute to your salary."

Laughter pressed in her throat. "When was the last time, you personally, went and paid your licence fee?"

Finishing his sandwich, he shrugged, impassive. "Can't remember. Probably never. Do I even pay it? I don't know."

Following the serpentine curves, the two of them wandered slowly down the edge of the loch, the small path leading them over the shallow stones.

"There was a famous clan battle fought right here in 1544," John told her quietly. "Or a bit more over there." He pointed back toward the northern end where they had come from. "MacDonald verses Fraser. Mmm… Another brilliant name. Battle of the Shirts. Apparently it was so hot that everyone took off their plaids and just fought in shirts instead. A proper strip down. But… I've always been dubious. Heat in this country? I'm not sure I really believe it."

"What were they fighting about?"

"Have a guess."

"Well, there's only two options. Land or leadership."

"Latter."

"Who won?"

"No one. There were eight hundred men and thirteen survivors. No victors. A stalemate." John sighed slowly, squinting in the sun. "We are so stupid."

"So stupid," Clara smiled, her tone wiping out his wider sentiment and hinting towards something a little more regionally personal.

A grin pressed on the edges of his mouth at her light teasing. "Careful. You're outnumbered here."

"Well… not in this immediate moment." She cast her gaze purposely over the empty landscape.

He shrugged and pointed over the loch. "I just have to do the secret Scottish warcry and my army will traverse over the hill."

"Why's it secret?"

"Because none of the English have ever survived to carry it over the border." He gave her a blank stare. "Obviously."

She shrugged. "I could just seduce my way through the lot of them."

He breathed out laughter and ducked his head. "Course you would."

"I'm a brilliant tactician."

More laughter spilled from his mouth and he rubbed fingers over his eyes. "Christ."

"What?"

"I'm just imagining it."

Clara pulled a face, realising the situation they were getting themselves into. "Maybe… maybe don't do that," she considered, frowning.

John smiled, flashing teeth and then biting on his bottom lip. "Well. They wouldn't stand a chance. Anyway. Do you like buzzards? There's a buzzard."

His pointing hand followed a high flying bird soaring overhead. "We might see a golden eagle on Skye. I've seen one before. Their wingspan can exceed two meters. The grey wolf hunter. Literally. A bird that can kill a wolf. You should probably be careful," he frowned, scanning eyes over her. "You're quite small."

Clara blinked, grinning. "I'm not going to spend this week being eaten by a bird. Why do you suddenly keep insinuating I'm not going to survive Scotland?"

"Dangerous land," he shrugged, fixing her with his own grin.

"Well, it's a very beautiful dangerous land, at least. So beautiful. I'd sort of forgotten. England has nothing on this."

Clara sighed, watching amusement flash over his profile. The cold breeze ruffled his silvery curls and he paused at the water's edge before turning slowly to look at her.

"They feel very different to me," he mused. "The border is imaginary of course, but in my head, England is… soft. The landscape, I mean. Not the people." He grinned as she narrowed her eyes at the wording. "Although…"

"This is going well," Clara expressed with a fixed smile.

John laughed. "I'll try again. England is like grass that you know can dry in the sun, even when it's covered in dew. In the summer, you can see the haze and the little flying insects to brush from your face. Clouds reside and the rain expelled is dreary and damp." He closed his eyes. "England feels old. I feel the shadows when I'm in London. All that history. But _Scotland,_ Scotland feels… ancient."

His returning gaze cast into their surroundings. "The stones of the castles are crumbling away into dust. Tiny, tiny grains wearing slowly down into nothing. We can't stop it. If you fix it, it just crumbles again. The forests are taller, older. The shadows are darker and deeper. There's something…" He screwed up his eyes, confused or contemplating. "... Hidden here. I always think I can feel it on my skin. Somewhere in the cold."

He swallowed, running a hand over his throat. "It's… sharp. Visceral. You can _see_ it mirrored in the sky and in the hills. The colours, they're more distinct than what they should be. They don't blend. It's almost a hard light, especially now, in winter. It cuts in my eyes. Some things"—He blinked, frowning up at the blue—"hurt to look at. As if there's a push on the limits to the spectrum we're allowed access to."

Humming, he ran a slow line down his chest. "Nothing can ever dry. But it never feels damp because the colours are wrong." His hand indicated to the north where the barren hills of burnt orange extended into the distance, sun scraping over the curves. "See? An illusion of a scorched earth. When you touch… When you touch the ground, it's never warm. There's no heat in the soil. And it wants your warmth, like it's feeding as your fingers dig into its flesh."

He crouched to the ground, one knee pressing into the stones. His palm flattened on the shore, just out of range of the lapping waves. She found herself mirroring his position, fingertips touching over the stones.

"Look." He extended his hand slowly towards her and pressed his fingers over her cheek. "My hand is cold."

It was like ice, to be more accurate. His skin always seemed to be consistently warm and the alteration was a little startling. He dragged them down her jaw, lingering and then away.

"Be careful," he warned quietly, pointing to her fingers still resting on the stones. "You have to be careful it doesn't take too much."

He curled his hand into a fist and then stood up. She followed him again, straightening as the remnants of his touch persisted on her cheek and his expression shifted into an absently wistful state.

"I've seen rain… rain falling in the wrong direction. Lifting instead, up and up, refusing gravity. And maybe it's just the wind. Wind so strong you can lean backwards over a cliff and let it hold you. Or maybe… it's not."

His low voice consumed her, washing over her like warm water as she stared out into the surrounding hills with the patches of pine. A light breeze rippled across the open water, rustling the scattering of trees behind them at the edges of her perceptions.

"The silence here is like… nothing I've ever heard." The contradiction curved his mouth. "When it is very still. When the wind ceases and the rain stops. There are no birds. No insects. No movement. It's the precipice of breath. Quiet."

Beyond the treetops, the buzzard returned, swooping in its formidable hunt. Clara followed its sweeping path, lifting in the gentle currents. The only other sign of life she could see. John dragged his eyes away and let his gaze fall in front of him.

"Maybe it's lurking in the water, too. Within are..."

"Monsters," she mumbled, finishing his sentence.

"Monsters," he repeated, smile on his lips. "Monster."

He moved, trailing a hand over her shoulders and stepping behind her. Her back brushed his chest and she leaned into him automatically, his body holding her weight.

"Watch the water," he instructed quietly.

Her gaze met the tiny waves lapping on small stones while the gentle, rhythmic sound pulsated in her ears. The shifting blue and grey expanse filled her eyes.

"We're at the wrong loch for the eminent monster," he murmured, his words brushing a more familiar heat over her ear. "But there are others. These waters hold the River Horse. Lord of the Lake. A supernatural being. Sometimes… in the form of a horse, it will graze on the banks. Lure mares from pastures and into the depths. And when angry, overturn boats."

A shiver travelled down her spine. The cold perhaps.

"And you think, well, it's not real. But you never really feel reassured in your assurances. Just that slight possibility keeps you wary against your own logic. Shadows in the corner of your eye. A tiny inconsistency in the pattern of the waves. The monsters aren't real, but you always look. Every single time. Just in case. Just to check."

He shifted against her, hands gripping into the sleeves of her coat and then around her wrists, mouth pressing into her hair. The sun that touched on her skin refused to leave any trace of heat.

"This is my home. It made me this person. In this country, things hide. In water and shadow and in the tiny gaps between the stones. Not for protection. But because they don't want to be seen. So. Be careful where you put your feet. And your hands. Because England is a dream. And Scotland is… reality."

Withdrawing, he took a deep breath and moved to stand beside her, trailing cold fingers over the back of her hand. She blinked, her trance-like state trying to revert to a more coherent condition.

"Except maybe for today," he added, smiling at her captured expression. "Today is still. At peace. And your hands are warm. Look, there's the River Horse."

John pointed over the water and Clara turned her head reflexively to look.

"Too late," he smiled softly, his eyes still on her as she returned to his gaze. "You missed it."


	4. One Heart Verses Twenty Four Ribs

**Chapter 4: One Heart Verses Twenty Four Ribs**

* * *

The roads were quiet. Rain was periodically splattering the windscreen—the weather deciding it was bored now of pretending it was a different time of year. Clara couldn't remember the last time she had driven quiet roads in a car. On her motorbike, yes, but that was a completely different experience. Significantly more cold. This car had a rather good heating system. In a car, she could zone out in a lulled state that couldn't be done on a bike. In a… safe way, of course. She was quite attentively aware she was transporting Britain's national treasure in a small metal box travelling at fifty miles per hour. That wouldn't exactly be a pleasant headline.

"I'm not asleep!" John exclaimed suddenly, jerking awake. "I've never been asleep in my life." His head swivelled, disoriented. "Were you talking to me? If so, no. I don't agree with anything you just said."

Clara frowned with amusement, returning her eyes to the road. She had taken over driving after insisting that his habit to glance incessantly out of the driver door window every five seconds to look at trees and fences was going to end up cutting their holiday very short. Although, she hadn't exactly done a good job of sticking to her own instruction, taking advantage of his peacefully sleeping state to look at him while he couldn't notice her doing it.

"Where are we?" John asked, wiping at his eyes.

"Um… I don't have a clue. There's a good possibility I've driven past a turnoff.

"We're on Skye though?"

"Yeah. For an hour."

"Look at that view," he murmured, gazing out of his window.

Clara grinned. It was pitch black outside, the sun long set, casting the world into darkness. "I was about to wake you up for directions. We just passed Portree. I turned right on the… A85-something. Off the main road. Past the harbour. Was that right?"

"I wasn't asleep," he grumbled, irritated. "I just… had my eyes closed for an extended moment of time."

The back of his hands pressed into his eyes and then he pushed hard into the seat, tapping his skull repetitively against the headrest. "Portree…" he trailed absently. "Right. Just head in…" He waved a vague hand in front of the windscreen. "... that direction."

"Yessir," she murmured, amused by his behaviour. She pointed at the screen below the dash. "Does that have a GPS?"

"Yes," he confirmed, turning it on. Five seconds of tapping later and he was growling in annoyance. "No. What am I doing? I don't need a stupid computer to tell me what to do. Go that way." He switched it off and pointed into the dark. "It's that way."

"I'm going to be annoyed if we drive off a cliff."

"You're in charge of the steering wheel."

Grumpy when forced out of sleep, Clara smiled to herself. Probably should remember that. Or not. She probably didn't need to know that.

"I've finally decided on my favourite flower," she mentioned to distract him. "Can't believe I didn't think of this before. Triffids."

They had spent the previous hours of his conscious state going through every 'favourite' question they could think of before he had fallen silent and closed his eyes against the window.

"Not a flower, Oswald," he retorted. "Try again."

"Yeah? Well at least my favourite song isn't from the fucking Elton John collection."

"I was joking."

"No, you weren't. I'm never letting that go. Forever."

"Forever is a rather long time."

That right there—was her fault. She needed to stop having conversations like this.

"Maybe we should spend our time this week making friendship bracelets," he muttered, staring intently out of the window into nothing. "Have you driven past a hill that looks like a giant kicked out the side of it?"

"I've driven past some road that looks like road," she returned wryly, pointing a finger to the rushing grey passing in front of them.

"Hmm. Oh well. I've got a fantastic sense of direction. I've never been lost anywhere in my life."

She stole another glance at his furrowed brows just visible in the low light. He rubbed his eyes again and then shook his head.

"Eyes on the road," he demanded, disgruntled.

"Yessir," she murmured, holding back a pressing smile and tapping her forehead in mock salute.

"Your rules." He crossed his arms. "I bet you've been staring at me for the last hour."

 _Fucksake._

"No, I haven't."

"You have. Everyone stares at me."

Clara sighed. _So_ grumpy. She desperately wanted to smile. The expression she could make out was almost endearing. She refrained, feeling as if it would increase his irritation, even if he couldn't see it in the dark. The sun had set before five, the granted hours of daylight this far north only extending for a meagre seven hours.

"I could beat a triffid in a fight," John declared suddenly.

Helpless against it, she smiled. "Why are you all… alpha male today?"

"Clara." His tone was unfazed. "Don't tell me you wouldn't want to punch a triffid in the face."

"They don't have a face."

"In the trunk, then." He jabbed his fist into the air in front of him. "I'd be a brilliant triffid hunter. How many do you think I could take on at once? Five? Maybe ten. Probably fifty. Anyway. This is likely just because of a return to the motherland. I slide right back into the scrappy section of the Glaswegian stereotype."

"You're doing a fantastic job of it."

"Thank you," he muttered under his breath.

John leant forward, fixing his eyes out the window, looking for landmarks. A sign eventually flashed past them and he pressed his fist into the dash. "Great. I know exactly where we are. Lost."

"What—really?"

"No. Take the next right. Or the one after. You choose. Fifty-fifty. One leads to the house, other to a cliff."

* * *

One storied and traditionally stone clad, the house was spectacularly quaint—perhaps—but in a seemingly modern way. It displayed white window frames and a built-up entrance, but it had clearly been renovated at some point. Vines extended on one side of the wall to the roof and spread around a chimney. A well maintained garden and shrubbery extended around the outside. John had mentioned something previously about the view, but the rest of the property and whatever expanded beyond was hidden in the dark.

"Knock knock."

She was still distracted by the outside of the house as he spoke. She peered through the windscreen at it, the front illuminated solely by the car headlights. It looked old, enchanting, like it had stood here for one hundred years, upgraded and up-kept when required. Straight out of a book. Knowing him though, she imagined the inside would be a little different from any decor fully replicant of the last century.

"Clara," he demanded, wanting her attention. "Knock knock."

She blinked and turned to him. "What?"

John gave her an unimpressed stare. "It's 'who', not 'what'."

"What?"

"Knock knock."

She clicked on to what was happening. "Who's there."

"We're."

"We're who," she repeated blankly.

"We're here."

An extended moment of silence passed between them as Clara blinked again and tried to figure out if there was anything she could draw out of that interaction.

"John…" she said slowly, staring at him. "That was quite possibly the worst joke anyone has ever said. Number one being, it wasn't a joke in any way. None of that made sense."

A humourless grin spread on his features. "Don't care. Do you like my house?"

She turned her gaze back to the view. "Ten out of ten for the outside."

"Come on then!" he insisted abruptly, jumping out of the car. "We're here! Let's go swimming!" He slammed the door.

Clara wiped her eyes, a tired smile pressing on the edges of her mouth. She watched him walk around to the front of the car. He mouthed something she couldn't hear, and then wound down the window. The outside temperature began washing through the heat.

"What?"

"I've got an absolutely awful and inappropriate physical humour joke, if you want that instead."

He banged the bonnet twice with an open palm. Christ. He was pushing a dangerous line.

"No, thank you," she called, grinning and breathing out amusement. He was obviously in a strange mood. Restless and impatient, which she imagined was from being cooped up and stationary in the small box for most of the day. He probably needed to go for a run and expel some energy. Her thoughts drifted to other possible ways they could solve this issue.

 _Stop that—_

An outside light flicked on as she watched him reach the front door of the house. He twisted the handle and then banged on it in frustration. "Clara!" he yelled back at her. "Get out of the car!"

The rest of the cold seeped into her as she exited. Freezing was too much of a generous, warm descriptor. This was something else entirely. Her coat was abandoned somewhere in the backseat. She shivered immediately and watched her breath expand in the low light. No one would survive this exposure dressed as she was for very long. She felt like she might have been able to hear the sea crashing in the distance, but couldn't be entirely sure. Icy wind swept across her unprotected body.

"Keys," John instructed firmly, pointing back at the driver side.

The now customary reaction to entering any room that he owned overcame Clara again and she groaned in her head, marvelling at the utter luxury.

This was a cottage— _small house_ —and not a normal-sized-house-with-a-big-gate, but even so, it was completely gorgeous. A compressed opulence. A small entranceway led straight into a combined living room and kitchen. The stonework continued within, matched with dark wood and crossing beams on the ceiling. Someone had been in here recently, the fire was going and low lights from surrounding lamps were casting a soft haze over the room. It was blissfully warm, heat from the flames, or matched with an alternative source to completely saturate the area. The warmth melted the immediate prickle of ice that had started setting in her lungs. Couches spread around the glowing fireplace, a large grey rug trapped beneath. Firewood was stacked high in a basket and a handcrafted dining table was placed on the opposite side beside the kitchen bar, dangling lights situated above.

Clara stared back at the fire, deciding she was going to spend the next seven days immobilised beside it while she ordered her grumpy and cross servant to make tea and pass her books. She breathed out, wondering how difficult it could be to write a song, record it, be declared a musical genius, and then become excessively rich and buy a house on an isle. Couldn't be that hard.

"Okay?" John murmured from behind her, hand briefly pressing into the small of her back.

She realised she was blocking the entranceway to the room. "How come… how come you don't just live here permanently?" she mumbled, not bothering to move.

She heard him laugh a little and then hands were placed on her shoulders. He applied pressure and made her dip slightly so he could put his chin on the top of her head.

She twisted away, annoyed. "Don't do that," she muttered.

"Grow and I won't be able to," he shot back immediately. He pulled her out of the way so he could enter the room and then took off his jumper, throwing it carelessly to the floor.

"Hello, house!" he yelled in an expectant tone. He paused as if waiting for a response before scrubbing a hand hard through his curls and shaking his head.

"Sorry, Clara," he sighed, frowning as if realising his attitude. "I've gone all antsy."

"Clearly," she smiled.

There was nothing nervous or apprehensive about him, just… fidgety impatience. Antsy was a good word.

"I'll be fine in a sec."

"Go run down the road and back."

"The monsters will get me," he contended, frowning further. "Do you like my house?"

She wasn't entirely sure why he was insistent to keep asking her this. Want of approval, perhaps. His eyes and expression gave her nothing other than a darting assertiveness.

"Yeah. Of course I do."

"Good." He considered her response for another moment and then asked again. "You like it?"

"Yes, John," she confirmed for the third time, smiling slightly with confused amusement.

"Good," he repeated abruptly, brushing his palm quickly over his chest.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly, wondering whether she should more concerned about his agitation. She hadn't experienced this mood from him this before. Perhaps flashes, but not a continual restlessness.

"Yes." He nodded and smiled, showing a flash of teeth. "I'll get all the stuff. I can do it in one trip. Carry every single thing at once. Like a Hercules beetle. Stay here."

Rather than argue with him in his jittery state, she just nodded and wandered further into the room. He certainly possessed a lot of books, evident in the wide shelf filled to capacity attached to one side of the wall. She found a light switch and washed proper illumination over the beautiful space. The framed art on the wall was all his. She shook her head as her inspection continued. It was incredibly good, the level of detail almost astounding her. They were all landscape, probably of _this_ landscape. High cliffs and choppy seas, cragged rocks and barren hills. An easel was set into one corner beside a wide window that stretched the width of the room, currently shrouded by curtains.

Photos lined the mantelpiece above the fire. A small child in wellingtons and an oversized coat, standing with her arms raised in front of a high rise of a cliff face. Chloe, she assumed with a small smile. Hamish she recognised, shirtless and behind a drum kit, face fixed in concentration, arm half raised, taken moments before the stick hit a symbol. There were two of Louis, the first of a very young version, small enough to be carried on John's shoulders as he walked down a sandy beach path. The other much more recent, school uniform on a football field, hands in pockets and a slanted smile directed to the right of the lens.

Clara fixed her gaze on the left most picture. John was younger, nearer her age perhaps. Ten years ago. He had his arm around River's shoulders, head tilted sideways into hers. It was a lovely shot. They were both smiling, peaceful curves set on their mouths amidst a relaxed and serene moment.

She bit her lip, frowning. She didn't know how to feel about River. Part of her wanted to apologise to her, another wanted to avoid her completely, and another was incredibly glad—for River's sake—that she was out of the relationship. Combined, it was an odd sensation.

John stepped beside her suddenly and she quickly dragged her mind out of the place it was sinking into while she was startled by his presence.

"What should I do with this?" he asked quietly, pressing fingers into the bottom of the frame.

"Whatever you want," she replied, lifting her shoulders.

"Can't just leave photos of the ex lying around," he muttered, staring at it intently. He was clearly hesitant, frowning and unsure.

"Just leave it," she suggested, glancing at him. "You don't need to decide now."

He nodded slowly and took his hand away, crossing his arms. "I dropped my guitar."

"Huh?"

"Outside. Just now."

Clara blinked, returning to the present. "Oh, right. Ah… is it okay?"

He shrugged. "I was trying to carry everything at once."

"You might have just taken ten thousand off its value. A little scratch."

He didn't like that. His eyes flashed and he fixed her in the dark burn of an intensive stare. "I hope I didn't scratch it. Was there anything breakable in your bag?"

"Did you drop that as well?"

"Yes."

She shook her head with false annoyance. "So strong…" she chided lightly, trying to encourage a reaction that wasn't so serious. Granted—teasing sarcasm probably wasn't the best way to go about it.

Rather predictably, she received nothing back. He just stared.

"Fucksake," she sighed, almost wanting to laugh at him. "Seriously. Go for a fucking run or something. Stand in the cold for ten minutes."

A cryptic frown set on his brow in place of a response. Dark eyes scanned over her face.

"Who lit the fire?" she tried, nodding in its direction.

"No idea."

Clara paused, staring at his blank expression. He didn't look away from her, just kept up the insistent, untranslatable fixation. She reconsidered what was really going on. He was being weird.

"John," she frowned, more serious in her concern now. "Sure you're… okay? You're being weird now."

His eyes were a little red. He was probably overtired. Travelling, for reasons she had never quite been able to settle on due to all the sitting, was exhausting. Or perhaps this was something a little deeper. That was understandable. She watched him blink slowly and clasp the hem of his shirt in his fist. She didn't exactly expect him to be calm and rational on a continual basis. That was completely unrealistic. She'd been given a huge insight into how he felt and she certainly had some idea of what she was getting herself into. And, she was pretty sure he either struggled, or was incapable of maintaining any sort of facade around her. That idea— _fact?_ —made her feel incredibly odd. But he had told her that, if not in explicit terms, then in actions. If he was trying to compress this behaviour down, then he was doing a terrible job of it. He might have been sharing for her benefit. A simple warning so she could understand.

"Do you still like me when I'm like this?"

Definitely sharing for her benefit. She sighed. She just wanted to hug him. It was easier than words.

"John…" she trailed with an unintentional incredulous edge to her tone. "You don't need to ask me that question."

"What's the answer?" He didn't give her a chance to reply. "What am I going to do about you?"

"In what way?"

"You."

She blinked, confused. "Me… how?"

"Just you. In general."

"You're not making any sense."

He nodded and hummed, absent and detached, wiping fingers over his mouth. "I had a nice day. With you."

"Ah… yeah." She smiled at him, gentle but unsure how that related to his previous statements. "Me too."

"What bit did you like the best?"

A review section. He wanted a performance review. Clara breathed out and let her head catch up to what was happening. She filtered through some irreverent remarks before deciding a serious response was probably best.

"When you were telling me stories about the other times you've come here."

He nodded slowly as if pondering over her reply. "Was I annoying?"

That was a little more revealing. Possibly obviously revealing. Ridiculous and unnecessary insecurity. She was going to have to talk to him about this. She didn't want him to feel like this or he would never be able to relax around her. Broaching the subject, however, was another problem. She didn't think anything would be achieved by just telling him he was being _ridiculously and unnecessarily insecure._

"John," she sighed, wanting to press into him for some sort of physical reassurance while she was devoid of appropriate words and a solution. "No. Of course you weren't."

"Are you very sure?"

" _Yes,"_ she stressed, frowning.

The other part of the problem here was that he very much needed to cease the relentless stare that was currently, at this very moment, happening. It was making her… weak. This was one of those stares that reified and seemingly shed proof over the fact he was capable of sinking inside her mind, scrolling through her conscious thoughts. Impossible. Probable.

"I'm going to have a shower."

She blinked, not expecting such a straightforward and extraneous response. "Okay," she said carefully. "I'll just… make a start on my fifty thousand piece jigsaw puzzle then."

"Come with me."

Clara swallowed, heart pounding in her chest. In her ears. He wasn't allowed to say that, this wasn't _friends—_

"I'll give you a tour on the way."

Right. _Right._

"Right," she muttered in relief. "Okay."

She followed him down the short hallway, trailing fingers over the dark wood that made up the walls.

"This is the main bedroom," John explained, pressing his foot into the bottom of the door and switching on the light.

Gorgeous of course, large bed and small desk facing each other. A white framed window extended across the entirety of the back wall.

John twisted back into the hallway and pushed open the opposite door. "Here's the other."

The room was smaller but just as nice, the windows instead opening to the front of the house. Another of his watercolours hung on the wall, a dark depiction of a moonlit night over rippling water. The pointlessly jealous section of her mind was suddenly annoyed her drawing skills extended to a circle, two dots and a smiling curve.

"Ah… I usually sleep in there"—John pointed back towards the other bedroom—"but you can have it. It's bigger. And it has the view. You're going to like the view."

Clara shook her head slowly. "No…" she said absently, watching him frown. "John, I'm not taking your bedroom."

"But it's better."

"I don't care. Why would I care? This is fine. Obviously."

John shrugged and escorted her absently past the laundry, uninterested, and then stopped outside the bathroom, pressing on the door.

"There's a bath, see?" He pointed unnecessarily to the corner where a bath was indeed, inset.

His eyes flickered back to hers and held. "You'll be able to have a bath," he said slowly, like he was testing each word on his tongue. His hand trailed across his chest and down to his stomach, over the thin t-shirt.

"Sure," she swallowed, trying to tear her gaze from his fingers.

"Colin lives down the road," he explained suddenly without expression, pointing through the wall. "Well… down the road about three miles away. He's left us dinner. He's a terrible cook. But his wife, Helen, is not."

Clara didn't quite register what he was saying. It seemed like pointless information. He really did need to stop looking at her.

"I'm going to have a shower now."

Blinking quickly, she nodded. Definitely time to leave. She tried to remember how to send instructions to her legs.

"You should come with me."

In her chest, her heart made it overtly clear that it most definitely existed and then proceeded to assure her that, _yes,_ it probably could break through her ribcage if it actually wanted to.

"Just… kidding," John added with slow control. "Friends don't do that."

No, they did not. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. The endless black in his eyes drilled into her, making it impossible to look away. Silence extended between them. Clara started counting seconds, illusive and irrelevant numbers cycling through her head.

"We're going to be excellent friends, aren't we?"

His low tone washed like silk across her ears. She couldn't understand how he could shift so quickly from his former agitation into… _this._ This being the sort of behaviour that was absolutely not adherent to their admirable intentions.

"Aren't we," he repeated, a little more insistently. It wasn't inflected as a question but he wanted a response.

"Yes," she swallowed, nodding. Her mouth was dry.

"Scared of me?"

"What?"

A dangerous curve spread his mouth. The intimate warmth in his eyes was saturated through with something else entirely. "You look like you're scared of me."

"I'm not scared of you."

He lifted his shoulders, indifferent.

"You're scared of _me,"_ she added, completely unsure about how to deal with this situation and beginning to feel like any control over it was just an illusion of her own stubbornness.

"Yes, Clara," he replied carefully, keeping her eyes, "I am."

He gave her a smile. A proper, warm and genuine grin, much more replicant of what she was used to, and then closed the door on her.

Clara remained staring at it, wondering what the hell had just happened in that interaction, and then how the fuck she was supposed cope if he spent the next week looking at her like that. More pressingly, she needed to learn— _very quickly_ —how to adapt to this unpredictable transform in behaviour and tone. She put her hand over her chest and tried to decide how many of her twenty four ribs her traitor heart had just smashed through.


	5. A Grand Total Of Zero Days

**Chapter 5: A Grand Total Of Zero Days**

* * *

It always started the same. The other details varied in their volatile ways, but the beginning was consistently the same. Danny was walking down a grey and monotonous footpath, holding her hand, herself pulling on his arm so he would move a little bit faster. An adrenalised sense of happiness flooded her thoughts. He'd done something unnecessarily nice, like coming unexpectedly to work to pick her up. Could have been anything. She wasn't sure. But it was something good, something that made her feel she was suspended in a halcyon moment. It spread slowly. She could see it replicated on his face, the cheery, content smile and soft edge to his eyes.

Something went wrong as a steady line of blurred traffic began rushing past them. At first, it was only a diminutive shift, like noticing an interruption within a tiny breath of wind. Her gaze drifted to the hand she was clasping in her own. The grip tightened. A slow crush initially, as if it were clamping in want of her reassurance. The threshold crossed into pain, grating tiny bones together, squeezing now for burgeoning dread. This wasn't Danny's hand. Smaller, older, the wrong skin, the wrong fingers. Red nail polish. Rings on the ring finger. The woman was staring right past her and onto the road. Blue eyes. She couldn't understand the colour. Too blue. An implausible blue. She was pulled forward, an insistent, unbreakable tug. Over the curb, past the frozen cars. Gravel cut into her hands, digging into her nails, puncturing her flesh. It was in her mouth, the grit lining her throat like sandpaper as she swallowed to try and remove it.

 _Clara,_ she heard in her ear. That was different. No one ever spoke in this dream other than herself. She almost welcomed the change, a break in a repetitive moment. She was glad his eyes were closed this time. Sometimes they weren't.

 _Clara_ —

Much more insistent. No one could possibly have _that_ much blood in their body. It was completely unrealistic. It was on her hands. Sticking. Like she'd dipped into a bucket of paint.

"Clara!"

This wasn't a dream. A hand was pressing into her shoulder, shaking her awake, tearing her from the excruciating scene. She curled over, drawing her knees up and pressing her mouth into the pillow. The material clenched between her teeth and she bit down hard. There was an arm around her shoulders and a head beside hers. Murmurs of indistinct and soft speech swept her ears. Fear caressed through her veins in a hot wave before consciousness seeped in properly and reality began to make its hasty return. She heard her name repeated again and dragged herself to the present. Muscles weak at the effort, she stretched out her hand and pushed the voice away.

"Fuck off."

"What?"

"Fuck… _off,"_ she repeated, snarling the acrimonious words into the darkened room.

The concept wasn't difficult to understand. It meant _go away._ There was definitely blood in her mouth. At the back of her throat, a metallic, bitter taste of iron and rust. Pulsing and hot. She tried swallowing it down before she could choke on it.

 _not real not real not real…_

She could feel weight on the bed beside her, the dip in the mattress, the heat of another warm and breathing presence. He was still here.

"Clara?"

She forced rational into her head, and then forced demands into her limbs, lifting herself into sitting. She wiped at her cheeks. Her skin was wet. Eyes must be leaking.

"I could hear you whimpering."

Blinking, she cleared her obscured vision properly and considered the man beside her. "What— _through_ the door?"

Her voice sounded choked and rough. She cleared her throat.

"Yes. When I walked past. I was getting water."

Breathing out and gritting her teeth, she tried to regain a bit of control. "I'm not whimpering."

"Actually, you were whimpering."

"I'm not fucking whimpering," she asserted with more force.

"Okay, okay," he conceded in a murmur, drawing back and standing away.

 _Fuck_ —

She was embarrassed, for starters. Ashamed in part because it felt weak to be like this. She didn't want to have to be woken up like some child from a bad dream. His silhouette stood resolutely in front of her. She was angry at him. Passive anger that hadn't completely dispersed. Not yet. He'd lied about something she thought was important. It rose to the surface through the numbing and elusive crush while she was disoriented and nauseated from her phantom images. She didn't want to be angry, but her defences slammed hard against his presence. Anger was quick. It got fast results.

"Clara—" A hand pressed back into her shoulder, tentative but consoling.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, lashing out.

His fingers withdrew immediately as if he had been burned.

"Fuck," she breathed, wanting to groan at what this was turning into.

It was dark in the bedroom. She pulled the rest of the tangled covers away from her body and stood up, glad he couldn't properly see her. She pushed past him and left, squinting in the bright wash of the hallway. Her first attempt at finding the light switch in the bathroom failed and she didn't bother trying another part of the wall. Gripping the edges of the sink with trembling fingers, she stared down into the white surface. The rushing water sounded like white noise.

"Is this what it's like every night?"

She bent further over the sink, feeling sick.

"Fuck, Clara," John breathed, taking a step into the room when he didn't get a response. The lights turned on. Soft and hazy through the sheet of hair across her eyes. "You really should have been seeing some sort of psychologist about this weeks ago."

She frowned, eyes fixed on the water as they adjusted to the heightened illuminance.

"My sister—"

"John," she cut in. "Just leave it, yeah? I'll be fine. You're probably not the best person to be giving me advice on dealing with… head problems."

"Well, you're obviously not fine," he argued.

"John," she growled again into the sink, helpless. "I said I _will_ be fine. I just need a moment.

"Which you're not really giving me," she added under her breath.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Fuck off, please."

"No."

Helplessly irritated, she turned her head and blinked him into focus. He was looking down at her, frowning and grave. Arms crossed—a pale, austere and concerned statue. He was only in his pants. The fact that she didn't find that instantly distracting made her wonder what the fuck was wrong with her. She ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth and let her eyes return to the constant and continual rush of water hitting the sink.

"Clara."

Her breath escaped slowly through her teeth. She didn't want this. "I don't want—" She stopped and swallowed. "I don't need your help with this, okay? Please leave me alone."

"But last time—"

"That was different," she interrupted quickly.

"How?"

"It just was," she breathed, not wanting to start a dialogue in trying to explain to him that she hadn't exactly been one minute devoid of her continual nightmare, or hadn't been attempting to just be friends with him.

"Because you trusted me then?"

 _Shit._

He sounded… accusatory. Interesting. Accusatory but in a helpless way. She closed her eyes, wincing. She wasn't meaning to insinuate anything about trust. This really was just waiting to turn into a huge problem. Except she didn't want this fucking conversation right now, either. She was in no state to try and convince him that she trusted him. Conflict soared in her mind yet the last thing she wanted was an argument. All she wanted to do was stand over this sink _alone._

"All right," John shrugged when she didn't respond. "What are we going to do about it then?"

She shook her head, confused. "What?"

"I'm telling you now, Clara," he insisted, "I am absolutely not spending a week with you knowing that this is happening ten meters away."

"I can't control it. You might not have a choice."

The water beckoned her inwards. The tempting, sinking pull. She couldn't wait any longer. She put her right hand under the flow of warmth, scrubbing at her palm with her left. A pointless exercise. There was no blood. But it always seemed to help. A little relief flooded through her wired nerves as she felt imaginary red slide from her skin. His eyes were still on her, relentless, watching what she was doing.

"Fucking hell," he sighed, pressing fingers into his brow. "That's a completely normal thing to be doing at two in the morning, isn't it."

His tone was grim. Blunt. Even heading in the direction of callous and insensitive.

A lot of this, Clara reasoned, why she didn't want him to see, was her own version of insecurity. At least she could admit that to herself. She didn't want him to think she was weak. Which, rationally, wasn't exactly sound justification. But on the other hand, she didn't usually feel entirely rational while she was washing the remnants of false blood from her hands at two in the fucking morning.

"I'm going to be fine," she directed to the sink in the steadiest voice she could manage. "I'm just not better yet. But I will be. Just not yet."

"We've had this conversation, Clara," he said, exasperated and sighing before taking a step towards her. "You don't have to suffer through this by yourself."

She could only grit her teeth, feeling the automatic, guilty resistance to an external offer of support.

"Listen to me," John commanded suddenly, voice taking on a firmer and more insistent tone. "I'm not your—" He paused like he was turning a word over on his tongue. _"Saviour."_

Moving closer again, he persevered his speech, uncaring of her silent opposition. "Do you understand? I'm not the fucking miracle Jesus with a glass of water and a hero-complex that strides in and makes you better. Makes this stop. I'm not trying to be that person. I don't _want_ to be that person. That person is fucking dangerous."

His fingers slid to the edge of the sink beside hers, not touching, but offering assurance.

"Look, Clara, I didn't _fix_ you by sleeping with you that night, and I'm not going to fix you by being your friend. I know very fucking well that using other people to solve your problems you doesn't work. Understand? You are going to fix you. All _I_ want to do, is help you find some way to do that. You have options. It doesn't have to be _this,_ every night, over and over again."

He sighed and tilted his head down slightly so he could see more of her face. "Did you get any of that? Or am I speaking to a fifty year old Beethoven?"

Clara paused her small, repetitive and trembling breakdown and turned up from the sink to look towards him. "Was that a… deaf reference?"

"Yeah. Not great?"

"Ah… I think the execution could have been done better."

"How?"

She frowned, pondering. "I think it's the age addition. Maybe should have just kept it as, 'am I speaking to Beethoven'."

"But he wasn't deaf his entire life. Gradual from his late twenties."

Clara raised her eyebrows. "I'm in my late twenties. You should have done something with that."

"No, because then it's getting too obscure. You would have had to have known specifically that he started going deaf in his twenties for that to work. Did you know that?"

"No. Good point." She frowned again. "Look, the entire joke just doesn't work."

"Fine," he conceded, showing his palms in surrender. "Okay. I'm not exactly at my best at two o'clock in the morning."

Exhaling, John leant back against the counter, re-crossed his arms and looked down at her. "Clara," he reasoned a little more gently, "you could talk to me about it."

He waited for a response and continued when she was silent.

"Another option then, at this immediate moment…" He tapped a lone finger on the sink. "... Is that you could sleep with me."

"What?"

"In my bed, I mean. Just sleep with me. Beside me. I'll look after you."

Her brain scurried to process the weight of what he was offering with that suggestion. "That's not a good idea."

"Why?"

"You know why."

He shrugged slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her. "I don't care. I understand how it sounds on my behalf, but right now, it's the middle of the night and I couldn't give a fuck."

She swallowed, watching his mercurial, shifting eyes. Green, blue. Blue, green.

"Well," he shrugged again, apparently not concerned by a lack of an immediate decision. "I'm going to bed. Up to you." He disappeared from the room without another word.

Clara drilled her fingers against the rim of the sink that they were gripped around, staring blankly at the spotless white. She knew exactly what she wanted to do. Exactly. There was no conflict about the decision. Both her rational and irrational mind seemed to be in agreement, which rather concerned some other part of her brain. Whatever was in between rational and irrational. The grey area. She frowned. Nothing about that made any sense.

Clara released her hands slowly and stared down at her attire. She was dressed in only an oversized t-shirt and socks. Socks with a drawing of a cat on the shins. She dried her hands on the towel and walked into the hallway. John's door was open. Stopping under the frame, she stared into the darkened bedroom. She wasn't sure how long she stood irresolute, but eventually she was reprimanded for it.

"Fucksake, Clara," John sighed from the bed, exasperated. "Don't just stand there. You're hovering. Choose."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"I didn't," he contended. "But I'm going to if you keep standing there."

She didn't move, feet stuck to this particular section of the floor. Whatever wood the inside of this house was composed of, it was lovely. A very dark grain with tortuous curves. She wondered if he had brought his tree documentary for them to watch. She had a lot of questions.

"Clara."

"What?"

John pulled back the covers, making it very clear he was waiting for her to get in. "Hurry up. It's cold."

She bit into her bottom lip, hesitating against her own decision. Or his own leading and dictating choice.

"Clara," he snapped again, insistent. "You've literally come to the door. Stop being stupid."

"Why are you so demanding?"

"Because you're being annoying."

She heard him exhale a breath of frustration, and then he pulled the covers off himself completely and clambered out of the bed. He joined her at the door, towering and positioning close enough so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the intensity of soft warmth in his dark eyes was suddenly all-encompassing.

"So silly," he sighed gently, lifting his hand to run his thumb briefly over her jaw.

"I'm not," she murmured, automatically turning into his touch.

"Shush."

Clara could feel herself rapidly starting to concede to him, feeling almost helpless towards doing anything about it. The devastating proximity. "You've sort of lured me in here."

She saw him smile slightly in the dark. "Just like the River Horse," he muttered with a hint of amusement. "Enticing you into my bed. Right?"

"Right."

"Clara," he murmured, voice soft and low. "That's not what I'm doing at all. I would like you to understand that as an absolute. It's not my intention. I just want to help. I think I can help. I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just don't want you to feel like this. And I know right now it's… beyond your immediate control."

Her eyes had dropped to the floor, his attentive gaze a little too much for her to deal with. He tapped her chin gently with a finger, asking for her returning visual attention.

"Look. We could talk. I mean, you're right, I probably don't have any good advice. Or ideas. But I can just listen. Offer some inappropriate comments. Or you don't have to say anything at all. Course you don't. I could… read you a book. Make you tea. Or… I don't know. But I will do anything you want. Free of charge. Although tomorrow will be fifty pounds a minute. So, if I were you, I'd start taking advantage of complementary Wednesdays."

"It's technically Thursday now."

He exhaled a long sigh, clearly unimpressed. "In that case, Clara Oswald, you've probably racked up about five hundred quid already."

"You're far too expensive for an unqualified therapist."

"That four seconds of talking just cost you about three pounds twenty. Tick tock."

In her head, she began automatically counting the following moments of silence that passed between them. He stood patiently, awaiting her decision. His steadfast stance suggested he would be quite willing to stand here all night until he was given some sort of response.

"I don't want to talk," she swallowed finally. "Not right now."

"Okay," he murmured, absently bringing his lingering hand up again to brush hair from her temple.

Clara could feel the familiar phenomena of his radiating heat dragging her inwards. She gave him the answer she was only ever going to say. "Let's go to bed."

He didn't hear and she wasn't surprised. Her mumbled words were barely audible as she pressed to speak into his warm shoulder.

"Missed that," he replied, almost as quiet.

"Bed," she repeated, a little louder. "Let's go to bed. Your bed."

The sheets were warm from his presence. He followed her in as she put her back towards him, eyes fixing on the dark window displaying the depthless black outside.

 _Well done, Oswald. You've lasted a grand total of zero days not in his bed._

"You should probably hug me."

With his enigmatic confidence, at her instruction he shifted and pulled her into him, her back against his chest, legs entangling together. Like he was always going to. His warmth encompassed her immediately, saturating into her body. She wanted to groan out in pleasure; his skin, his hands, his weight covering like a thick blanket of comfort and assurance. For the sake of her self-respect and willingness to avoid embarrassment, she refrained from doing that. Definitely not. In no world would she have let that happen.

Her control about this situation was resolute, however. This wasn't turning into anything more than this right here. She didn't want that. The lingering residue of her vivid dreams were still circling her veins and it wiped out any immediate response to a possible change of… atmosphere. Yet she wondered how long that decisiveness would have lasted if he had begun shifting his hands or pressing into her in a more amorous way. Her admirable intentions.

 _Friends._

His admirable intentions. She wondered what he was thinking. This was incredibly intimate, she probably could have—

"You're annoyingly stubborn," he murmured in her ear. "Did you know that?"

Absolutely admirable intentions. His mind was on her words. She wanted to laugh.

"No, I'm not."

He breathed out amusement. "Thank you for proving my point."

"Shut up," she growled, smiling into the dark.

"You shut up."

"Don't start that."

"Don't start what?"

"Okay," she frowned. "You're just annoying in general. Did you know that?"

"No, I'm not. You told me earlier I wasn't."

"The only response I'm interested in is, 'sorry, Clara, for being so annoying'."

"Never in my life will I ever say that. If you want an apology, I'll get Donna to write you out an official statement."

She grinned into the pillow. It smelt of him. His fresh, clean scent. "Thought you'd fired her."

"Oh. Yes. I forgot about that. Damn it. I have no one to apologise on my behalf anymore."

"What _the fuck_ were you thinking doing that in an airport, by the way?"

"Okay, no," he growled immediately. "Shut up. That was a long time ago. And I was probably… I don't know."

"Drunk? High? That's the only possible reason I can think of."

"I don't know. Let's never talk about it again."

"So silly."

"You are."

"Oh my god," she breathed, struggling to compress her amusement. "Be quiet. I'm trying to go to sleep."

This was definitely helping. He was so warm. His skin was a soft press against hers. She wondered, briefly, if this could possibly be the most comfortable she had been—ever. Surely not. That couldn't be right. She had a whole life of moments to contend with this. The two of them just fitted together nicely. Like a jigsaw puzzle. A human jigsaw puzzle.

Twenty seconds of silence— _sixteen pounds_ —managed to pass between them before John interrupted the quiet.

"You're trapped on an island with me for ten whole days." His tone of voice was somewhat gleeful.

"It's only seven."

"It's actually eight. Eight here in this house, or nine if you count today and the day we leave, and then one or two full days in the car, and because the last night is at Ed's place, it technically means you're entirely wrong and I'm the winner of everything, forever. And I have five Grammys."

Clara listened to his pointless, irrelevant rambling, trying desperately not to laugh and give him the satisfaction of responding amusement. She controlled herself enough to retaliate. "It already feels like a thousand years."

John started chuckling. It sounded very much like he was smirking.

"What?" she asked, unable to help herself.

"You're trapped on an island with me."

"Yes," she sighed. "We've established that."

"What's it like being trapped on an island with the most famous person in the world?"

Clara bit down hard on her tongue to stop herself from laughing. The heat surrounding her body was now being strongly contended by the rush of radiating warmth in her chest. "Most famous person in the world? I barely even know who you are."

"I'm the most famous person on this island."

"Not exactly hard to achieve seeing we're probably the only ones on it."

"I still win. What's it like being trapped on an island _and_ in bed with the most famous person in the universe?"

"I'm really starting to question how it's possible you've established this arrogant and egotistical reputation in the media," she replied slowly.

"Are you regretting it?"

Clara turned her head up and into him slightly. "What—accepting this invitation to be trapped on an island with you?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"I am right now."

"Really?"

"Stop trying to put me in a position where I have to end up being honest with you to gratify your ego."

"So you're glad you're here then."

"No," she maintained. "I'd rather be in London."

"Really?"

"I don't even like this country. Last time I was here, I spent three hours in a hospital because a door slammed on my fingers."

"Right then. You can start walking back to England if you hate it so much."

"Fine. I will."

"Good."

"Good." Clara could imagine the grin plastered on his face behind her.

"I like our fights," he smirked, turning his mouth into her neck and breathing in slowly.

"We're extremely good at going in futile circles."

John shifted slightly, sliding his legs against hers. "Why are you wearing socks?" He pressed his foot over one of hers, indicating his disapproval.

"I always wear socks."

"No one wears socks to bed."

"I do."

"Take them off," he instructed firmly.

"No."

Amusement brushed over her skin in a hot rush. Another grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Why are you being so demanding?"

"I _like_ being demanding."

"Mmm. Noted."

"Do you want to try and find a golden eagle in the morning?"

Clara hummed again, tracing fingertips over the muscle in his arm. "What if one actually _does_ try and attack me?"

He left her question suspended for a few seconds before he started laughing into her shoulder, pressing hard into her shirt.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Just imagining a giant bird lifting you off the ground."

She couldn't help but return a small snicker of amusement. "Would you even try and save me?"

"Mmm, well… David Attenborough never intervenes with nature. He just lets the zebras eat the lion."

"Other way round."

"Huh?"

"The zebra doesn't eat the lion."

He paused. "I didn't say that."

"Yeah, you did."

"Didn't."

"You did."

"I did not," John contended again. "Quick warning—I can literally do this night. So you should probably just admit you're wrong and save us the time."

"No," she growled. "The only thing I'll admit to being wrong about was getting in this bed."

"I'm not keeping you here."

"I'll leave then."

"Way you go."

She didn't move. If anything, she pulled his arm a little tighter around her.

"Another excellent and pointless conversation," he murmured, moving to readjust his weight over her legs.

"Mmm. I'm going to sleep now. Mainly so I don't have to listen to you talk. Rather have the nightmares."

John chuckled again, nudging his mouth into her hair and then exhaling quietly. He caressed his thumb over the back of her hand where it was resting.

"I've decided I will save you from being eaten by a giant bird."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

A moment of silence passed between them before Clara spoke again. "I probably… probably will end up having to save myself though. You'll be too busy trying to tell me about its migration patterns or what dinosaur it evolved from."

"Shhh," he growled in her ear. "Maniraptorans. Long arms, three fingers. Includes the Velociraptor. Obviously. Go to sleep."

"Stop telling me what to do."

"I missed you. Last week."

Clara swallowed, the sudden confession catching her unawares. She let the words rest between them without response, but then wrapped her hand over his and pulled his arm into her chest. The warmth, and the soft, steady breath on her neck eventually lulled her into a state more representative as to what it should be in the very early hours of a Thursday morning. This really was an incredibly comfortable position.

"Clara," John murmured in whisper, an absent attempt at her name.

She hummed her waning attentiveness.

"Thank you for being… here. Being my friend."

She used what was left of her coherency and energy to push back further into him, tightening her grip around his arm. "You realise friends don't sleep like this," she mumbled, slurring slightly as her consciousness dipped. He may have replied, but she couldn't be entirely sure. She fell asleep thinking about giant birds and an overwhelming warmth in the midst of a land made of vast shadows and illusive colours.


	6. Local Science Pirate Radio

**Chapter 6: Local Science Pirate Radio**

* * *

Saturday mornings. It was… a Thursday morning, but Clara woke up thinking about Saturday. She reached automatically for her phone, expecting her hand to hit the bedside table, and when it didn't, she frowned and considered her environment. Memory flooded back and she slowly opened her eyes. The sun was yet to properly rise, still dark in the bedroom that wasn't hers.

She wasn't surprised when she realised she was alone, sheets warm from only her own presence. Another problem for the list of problems. Unable to stop herself from smiling, she contemplated through a few ideas on how to deal with this one. She was pretty sure her absent host had some underlying issue about _mornings._ Frowning because her frame of mind suggested there would be _another_ _time_ to figure out a solution, she got out of John's bed and went to her own room.

Contemplating text messages in her head under a long shower and then transferring thought into real words, she made her made way into the kitchen, eyes still on her phone as she typed but raising her hand absently in front of her. "Saturday mornings."

John slapped her open palm and she looked up properly, smiling when she was greeted by a wide grin.

"Well done. Can I be on your show?"

She laughed automatically with open amusement, but when he didn't join in, she stopped and frowned. "Serious?"

"Very."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why would you want to be on the show?"

"If Noel-fucking-Gallagher got to do it, then I want to do it."

"John," she reasoned, blinking and a little incredulous. "Can you imagine me pitching that idea to Michelle?"

He shrugged, not overly concerned at the obvious problem. "Your show."

"You're not going to be on the show."

Simply smiling in a way that suggested he didn't believe her, John crossed his arms and indicated behind her with an incline of his head. "Have you looked out the window yet?"

"Huh?"

"It's an opening in the wall that allows for a passage of light, usually made of translucent material. In this case, double-glazed glass."

"I know what a window is," she said blankly, keeping his eyes.

"Well, you clearly don't know how to use one." Another smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. "Turn the fuck around, Oswald."

Doing as he advised, Clara twisted her head to cast her gaze in the direction of the wide and translucent opening. Her mouth fell open. "Oh my _god,"_ she breathed, stunned.

"Romans were the first to use glass windows."

"Shut up," she said slowly, immediately dropping her phone and walking toward the glass. "No one cares about windows."

The glass touching the forehead acted as a physical obstacle. She was pretty sure she would have just kept walking forward if it wasn't there. "Come and look at the view."

"I am."

"John. Come and look at this." She waved an absent hand behind her for attention, wanting to share it.

"Look at the view!" she exclaimed with annoyance when he didn't appear beside her within a reasonable amount of time.

"It's a very beautiful view."

She tore her eyes away and twisted around, suspicious at his tone.

"I think the view should come and get breakfast," he smirked. His mouth shifted into a sly grin that showed teeth.

Clara stared at him, unimpressed. "Terrible," she returned without expression. "Wouldn't work on anyone."

John shrugged, smiling down at whatever he was doing at the bench. "Pretty sure it worked."

"No, it didn't."

"Worked, but you're being stubborn about it."

"John," she demanded. "Seriously. Come and look."

He grinned again and maneuvered out of the kitchen, half vaulting unnecessarily over a couch and landing beside her with a solid thump.

This was the view that rendered all other views obsolete. The house was situated on the edge of a high cliff. Far enough away not to feel like it was bordering on being a safety hazard, but close enough so that she could already feel the vertigo of a drop. A small wooden fence acted as a hesitant barrier. Beyond the hazardous edge… sea. Endless sea stretching in every direction and—

" _I_ like windows. You'd be complaining if this was just a big hole in the wall and the weather out there was part of the living room."

Wind sliced across the towering white-capped waves that swelled and moved in drifting lines. Spray in wide sheets shot across the water, lifting and twisting into funnels before dispersing and being created over again in an endless, repetitive cycle. The sun had only just risen and edges of pink and gold highlighted the dark clouds and deeper blue of an open space, promising perhaps a tentative show of the burning sky orb. On the right of the horizon, steep terrain appeared to rise from the depths, clearly visible even in the hazy shrouds of cloud and mist.

"There's a whale."

"Where?!" Clara's eyes darted over the water.

"Nowhere. Sorry. I was just trying to make it better."

"Oh. Well, it's already… pretty good."

" _Pretty good?_ Come on. You can do better than that."

"Really good," she amended absently, finding it difficult to summon the will to blink or look away.

"There are whales in there. Big, giant, boat eating whales. Whales the size of a mountain. Two mountains."

"We should go swimming," she suggested in a murmur. "That's what people do. On holiday."

"Don't go in the sea," he said under his breath. "Dangerous."

Pointing, John mumbled some Gaelic words to indicate the names of the islands or stretch of land that rose on the horizon, and then brushed her wrist with his fingers.

"Sleep okay?" he asked suddenly, voice soft and glancing down to her.

It took her a moment to snap out of her drifting state. "Um… yes. Seven hours straight. Twice now I've done that with you."

"Then maybe I actually _am_ a miracle Jesus," he murmured in mock wonderment. "Forget everything I said to you last night. I am your saviour."

"Glad to see your arrogance hasn't dispersed yet."

"Never been arrogant in my entire life," he contended quietly, smiling to himself. "Do you want to go outside this morning? We could walk to the castle. Or drive somewhere? There's a whole island to look at. There's a famous rock a little bit south.

"But we don't have to do any of that," he amended quickly. "What do you want to do? Fire. I'll make the fire. I did say earlier that you didn't have to even acknowledge my presence. I'll just wander around. You can do whatever you want."

She hummed absently, still mesmerized by the water and leaned a little unintentionally into his arm. "You did mention that, yeah."

"Okay. Well, I'll just be… here. Or there." He pointed a hand toward the easel. "If you want me. I might paint something."

"What are you going to paint?" she murmured, curious.

He shrugged, pressing fingertips into the glass. "Anything."

"Can I watch you paint?"

"Course," he swallowed. "I don't know how interesting it would be though. I'm quite slow. I do a lot of standing around contemplating and staring into the middle distance."

The thought of being able to unreservedly look at him for an extended period of time with a valid reason was suddenly incredibly appealing.

"Clara? You can just… tell me if I'm being annoying. At any point. Like yesterday? In the evening. Sorry about that. Sometimes I just… go weird."

She snapped a little more into the present and turned to address him directly. "Shut up," she grinned, grabbing his wrist. "Quit with all the apologising and the self doubt, yeah? You're only annoying when you're being like that. I want to do things with you. I'm not going to ignore you the entire week. Why would I do that? Show me everything. The castle. Let's go to the castle first."

"Okay," he smiled, perking up a little. "A trespassing adventure."

"Trespassing and eagle hunting."

"Only with our eyes," he added, frowning. "Not with pointy sticks."

"What about if it was in self defence?"

His mouth parted and his eyes narrowed.

"Here's a question, John," she smiled pleasantly. "Would you rather have me being eaten by a giant, killer feathered monster, or me smacking it with a stick in self defence?"

She grinned when a tiny, hinting smile pressed on his lips.

"If I had to choose… then, yeah. It's not looking good for you. Come and have breakfast."

He grabbed her hand and escorted her backwards. "Last meal before the end."

"Hypothetically…" Clara said slowly as she sipped at the tea he had slid towards her. "What would you do on the show? If you were on the show. Hypothetically. You're not actually going to be on the show."

John shrugged, buttering toast. "Just call me every week. I could—" He began a sinister chuckle of laughter. "I could do an advice section. People can tell me their problems and I'll tell them how to fix their lives."

"Jesus Christ," she breathed, eyes widening in horror. "In no world. Although, Jack… Jack would fucking love that."

"Please can I be on the show?"

"Oh my god." Clara sighed, trying to think it through. "You absolutely cannot be on the show."

"I should definitely be on the show."

"You should definitely be on the show."

He nodded. "I know."

"No." She shook her head quickly, staring blankly at the wall behind him. "No way. It would be a disaster. We'd last a month. Less."

"I could do science facts."

"That's about a hundred times worse than the former. What hungover man in his mid-twenties to early-forties wants to hear about… Jupiter's fifty nine moons on a Saturday morning?"

"Sixty nine," he corrected. "But, it would be science facts from _the Doctor."_ John started nodding repeatedly and raised his eyebrows. "Who wouldn't want that?"

Countering, she shook her head in time to his nodding.

"We'll see," he smirked, completely smug and then contemplative. "There's probably more moons orbiting Jupiter. The number seems to fluctuate. Once a moon disappeared and everyone assumed we'd lost it. Destroyed, perhaps. But we found it again a decade or so later."

"You're definitely not going to be on the show," Clara announced firmly.

"Lost moon was named after Dia, daughter of Deioneus, and who, _coincidentally,_ was seduced by Zeus… in the form of a horse."

"Fucksake," Clara breathed out, picking up her tea.

"River horse," he grinned, shrugging. "Lad gets around."

John bit down into a slice toast. "Oh," he realised with a guilty expression. "That was yours." He put the piece back down on the plate and pushed it towards her with a smile. "Breakfast."

* * *

Thirty seconds spent outside _assessing the conditions_ and John demanded to dress her in what felt like twenty layers of clothing.

 _Clara, you're too small to survive._

She'd told him to fuck off, and then let him attire her body as he thought necessary. It was still excessive. Two layers of thermals, two of his jumpers— _useless, John, they have holes_ —her coat, a bigger and warmer one of his, and then finally a rain shell. She could barely move. He wrapped a scarf around her neck and then completed his work by pulling a wooly hat down over her eyes. He started laughing, helped her into wellingtons and pushed her out the door. In all honesty, the moment the air found her skin, she regretted ever making the decision to leave the house.

A thirty minute walk down a deserted road led them to a towering set of gates, placed within an expansive surrounding wall. Large evergreen trees shrouded any view that might have been behind the rising stone.

Climbing over a high gate when she could barely move from the added hindrance of excess clothing—but refusing removal for fear of immediate hypothermia—was an unnecessarily difficult task. Both landing precariously on the other side, they began wandering down the gravelled entranceway, happily trespassing the grounds.

The castle was a proper monster of architecture. A grandeur, tall and overbearing structure, incredibly well maintained and clearly used for residence. It towered over the beautiful, well-kept grounds and the two of them slowly circled around it before strolling through the wet and muddy garden paths in the direction of the coastline.

"Who owns this place?" Clara asked, staring up at the high walls and shrouded windows.

"I own it."

She knocked his arm. "No, you don't."

"I do."

"John, if you owned a fucking castle, number one—your ego would have told me by now. Number two—why did I almost kill myself climbing over a locked gate? And finally, if this was yours, why the hell are we staying in the cottage?"

"You said you liked my cottage," he protested indignantly. "Ten out of ten."

"Who owns the castle?"

His face broke, a grin spreading his mouth. "Don't know," he admitted, lifting his shoulders. "Probably someone annoying with a title and a stupid hat. They're only here in the summer. So I always pretended it was mine. King John.

"I could buy it if I wanted to," he shrugged with another grin.

"Do you… seriously have enough money to buy a castle?"

He exhaled laughter and scrubbed at his eyes. "I don't know. Probably. When are you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

He raised his eyebrows expectantly and smiled at her like his question was obvious. "Contents of my bank account."

She inhaled, shaking her head. "Never."

John laughed. "You will. Eventually, everyone does. Can't resist forev—"

Without any warning, his hands pressed into her shoulders and he pulled her sideways from the path and behind a large shrub. Her knees sank hard into the wet and muddy ground.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, indignant to the abrupt interruption and the sinking mud.

"Shhh," he breathed, covering her mouth his hand.

"What?"

"Ah…" He peered beyond her shoulder. "Remember how I said before it's the off-season and no one would be here?" He gave her a very wide and guilty grin before lowering his hand. "Might have been a tiny bit wrong."

"John," she hissed, narrowing her eyes and twisting around.

"I mean, the chances were low," he whispered, pulling her down further so they were well hidden from sight.

A gardener made his way into her sights with a wheelbarrow full of dirt and a shovel. He spent a moment crouched beside the ground before slowly moving closer, stopping periodically to do something with the plants on his way forward.

"Don't forget what happens if we get arrested," John breathed in her ear. "I'm telling the police you made me do it."

"Rather take my chances in jail than spend the morning kneeling in freezing mud." Clara glared at him and then smirked, reconsidering as she glanced down to her attire. The hem of his coat was already covered in a thick coating of wet dirt. "Most of these clothes are yours, actually. So maybe I don't really care."

"You're going to have to wash them," he frowned, running his eyes over her.

She regarded him with disgust. "No, I'm not. I'm not your slave."

"You're the one ruining my clothes. And, I also don't know how to use the washing machine. So you'll have to do it."

"What? Who does your washing in London?"

"Andrea," he shrugged like it was obvious. "I put everything in a basket and then it magically appears clean and folded in my wardrobe."

"What's it like not living in the real world?"

"I have a lot more time to learn other skills."

"Like what?" she asked skeptically.

His grin turned toward the leaves in front of them and he shrugged, smirking. "Just… other things."

"What things?"

"Things." He shook his head and then looked at her with unabashed delight. "You're trapped on this island with me."

"Right now I think our entrapment is a little more local." Frowning, Clara watched the gardener do whatever it was gardners did in a garden. _Garden,_ probably, if she was attaching intransitive direction.

"Garden is a great word," she mused absently, running her thoughts over the pronunciation.

" _Garrrden,"_ he drawled quietly in his rough Scottish. "Old English of German origin. Variant on the French _jardin_."

"John," she sighed, annoyed. "Do you literally fucking know everything about everything?"

"Yes," he confirmed, looking incredibly smug about the idea and then switched his gaze to her. "You're trapped on this island with me."

Clara laughed as silently as she could manage, perplexed to why he was adamant to keep stressing the idea. "Yeah," she grinned into her hand. "I've noticed. You've also reminded me about a million times."

He smiled and wiped pale fingers over his chin. "We could… could wait for the monarchy to destroy the Skye bridge and then we really would be stuck here forever."

"That's what you want?"

He bit his bottom lip and nodded slowly, warm eyes on her before transferring back to the gardener. "Yes."

"Wouldn't it be a bit lonely?"

"No," he shrugged. "Because you would be here."

"What would we do for the rest of our lives?"

"Hmm… I will be a scientist. You can start a pirate radio station. I could be on it and just tell people science facts."

"That sounds pretty good, actually. Local science pirate radio."

"I can do the music as well. That might get us some listeners. Lure them in with a song, and then… Bam! Halfway through I stop and give a dissertation on butterfly lifecycles."

"We should do that," she nodded, grinning at the thought of him streaming off a list of obscure nonsense into a microphone with a regular audience of around three people.

"Okay," he smiled, glancing at her. "We could get a new cat as well."

"An upgrade." Clara watched his quiet expression. "How come you don't have any pets? You could get a dog. Your place in London would be perfect for a dog."

"I would love to have a dog," he mumbled, voice lowering. The smile on his face seemed to falter a little.

"Get a dog."

"Can't."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Allergic."

"What?" She narrowed her eyes, frowning and confused. "How you can you be allergic? What about Winston?"

"I was allergic to Winston."

"You were allergic to _Winston?!"_

" _Shhh,"_ he expressed quickly, reprimanding and sending a cautious glance toward the lingering gardener.

"Winston?" she repeated in whisper, frowning further.

"Yeah." He sighed again, regretful. "Winston. I couldn't pat him. I had to walk beside him and just… look at him instead."

"Oh my god. John, that is really sad. I feel really sad about that." She almost wanted to laugh because of how ridiculously pitiful the admission was. "Why is this happening," she breathed, trying not to grin too much. "That seems very unfair."

"So many problems," he exhaled, smiling at her and running a hand over his forehead.

"I'm so sorry you're allergic to dogs."

"It's all right. I'm not allergic to cats or humans. Some humans."

"You could… get a cat? Do you want Margaret Thatcher? I don't want her."

He smiled softly. "You do want her."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do. I guess I could get a cat. Cat friend."

"Cat cluster. No—what were multiple cats called?"

"Clowder."

"Clowder. Get a clowder of cats."

"Fifty cats. Imagine if I got fifty cats."

"How do you even look after fifty cats?"

"Clara," he emphasized with a hint of excitement. "We could get fifty cats for our house when the bridge is destroyed."

"I'm not living with fifty cats."

"Forty nine cats, then. Final offer."

"All right," she smiled, feeling warm as she watched his dark eyes turn bright with enthusiasm. "Forty nine cats. They wouldn't fit in the cottage though. We'd be standing on them."

"Cat carpet. A carpet of cats. Get it? Like a new collective noun?"

She chuckled. "Yeah, I got it."

"I'm so funny."

"I'll give you that one. That was pretty good."

"Thanks," he grinned. "Will I be allowed to do jokes on your pirate radio?"

"I honestly can't tell if any of this is funny to people other than us."

"Knock knock." He raised his eyebrows to encourage a response when her expression turned rightfully skeptical.

"Who's there?" she said slowly, suspicious.

"Me."

"Me who?"

"Me on the radio."

Clara closed her eyes, grin plastering her mouth. "I want to assume you're doing it on purpose, but I'm starting to think you truly don't know how that joke is supposed to work."

"I'm very literal when it comes to indicating my arrival at someone's house. For example—knock knock."

"Who's there," she sighed, giving him a final chance to redeem himself.

"Hello."

She rolled her eyes, abandoning her prior leniency.

"No! Clara, come on. Please. It's a good one. I promise."

"Fine. Hello who?"

"Hello, it's John."

She gave him three seconds of blank staring and then pressed hard into his arm, pushing him sideways in disgust. "It's supposed to be a pun! That makes no sense!"

"Hello," he laughed, instinctively grabbing her shoulder as he fell, pulling her down with him. She instantly tried to stop the descent but he was quicker, shifting his weight and letting her land beside him, conclusion being her palms and the entire underside of her sleeves were covered with wet mud.

"Have fun doing all the washing later," he grinned, smug and chuckling with sly amusement.

Clara gave him a pleasant smile before reaching around his neck, imprinting a muddy handprint on his skin, and then twisted to force his head down to the ground.

"No!" he protested in horror, his easy resistance failing as his elbow slipped and she was able to use the advantage to put her palm over his cheek.

"Clara!"

She only laughed in delighted satisfaction as the side of his face was forced into the ground, coating his skin with thick mud and leaves. A short lived advantage—circling his arm, he gained back his former control and pressed her spine into the ground. Using his weight and greater strength, he pinned her beneath him, wrapping one wrist in his hand and trapping the other between their bodies.

"Don't," she groaned, helpless as the back of her head sunk into the mud.

"Too bad, Clara," he grinned, a filthy hand slowly lowering toward her face. He paused the extended torment and laughed at her dismayed expression and powerless position. "You shouldn't have done that."

"It's going in my eyes," she protested, squinting as water dripped on her forehead and slid a downwards path.

"What a shame."

"Please don't," she tried again, pleading against her impending fate and squirming beneath him. "John!"

He shook his head, smug with gleeful revenge and completely unconcerned at her predicament. "Too late."

Cold mud met her skin and she groaned in disgust as his hand slid from her cheek to her ear, smearing a thick paste of vengeance.

"Now we're the same," he laughed, eyes narrowing with further scheming as he examined her other cheek.

"No!" she objected, twisting under him again as she realised he was going to continue. "Not both sides! I didn't do both sides. John! That's not fair!"

His wide grin softened suddenly, the edges of his mouth falling as he dropped his hand to thread his fingers through her hair instead. The smile faltered completely as she stilled beneath him. This was an intimate position. She forgot the mud and the water and stared back into his dark and ceaseless eyes. It wasn't cold anymore. Heat flooded her body. The hand around her wrist slid to her palm, pressing fingers over her own.

"You make me feel so happy," he murmured, swallowing and blinking slightly against the water in his lashes.

"John Smith," growled a voice from behind them.

Both of them jumped in startled fright, Clara instantly realising their speech and games had most definitely transcended the barrier of quiet.

 _Shit._

"What's going on here?"

John pressed a hand into the ground and lifted himself away from her to immediately twist around. The gardener had his arms crossed and was staring expectantly down at them. The man must have been in his seventies and was regarding them as if he just stumbled across two school children skipping class. His accent was much more pronounced than John's, the gruff rhotic needing a further moment of concentration in her head for translation.

"Thought that was you. Should know better."

"Christ," John breathed out for both the shock of interruption and resentment at being caught.

"Any idea why there's a locked gate over there?" He nodded in the appropriate direction and then turned back.

"We weren't trampling through the flowers," John scowled like the disgruntled child he was, shrugging with detached annoyance and sitting up. "Designated paths only."

"Like hell you were. Think I've forgotten you and your two lads destroying three months worth of planting, hmm?"

John frowned. "That was fifteen years ago."

"Aye. Always enjoyed a good grudge. Col mentioned you were at the house." He sniffed, nodding at Clara. "This your lass?"

"Yes," Clara said impassively before John could answer. "I'm the lass."

"Aye," the man agreed, smiling slightly.

Against most of her better judgement, she decided it best not to dwell on the all implications of her reply, as well as the less than adequate use of terminology.

"He's been trespassing in here since he was a lad."

"Secretly," John stressed, indignant.

"Might as well give you a set of keys. Think I'm a fool? You've both left your damned sets of footprints all over the place."

John opened his mouth to retaliate but then exhaled helplessly, realising it was pointless to argue against undeniable evidence. A moment of silence passed before he frowned and shrugged again, switching to unconcerned and squinting upward. "Seen any eagles?"

"Goldens? Not for a few weeks. A wee one over Sleat way by the coast, I think it was. Near Calligarry. But I'd try further north this time of year. Better chance." The man regarded John with an unimpressed stare and then gave another tiny smile. "Right," he growled, nodding at them both. "Stay out of the garden. You can roll around in mud on the paths. I'll leave you to it."

He cackled and turned around, retrieving his wheelbarrow and strolling away towards the castle. The two of them watched his departure blankly before John interrupted their quiet.

"Lass," he commented slowly, grin tugging on his mouth.

" _Don't_ start calling me that," Clara warned seriously, frowning. "Ever. Not even as a joke. Or I really will start walking back to England."

"Cover your footprints," he replied with a formidable glare toward the path.

"Mmm. We're terrible criminals."

John jumped to his feet and pulled her upright, the softness returning to his expression. "Mud monsters."

She grinned, looking down at her filthy hands and clothes before setting her eyes on the beach to their left. "Want to go swimming? I don't really want to be a mud monster."

Clara clambered down the steep path and over the rocks. A small jetty extended over the sea, wooden slats slippery with… whatever made wood near the sea turn slippery and green. Crouching at the end of the structure, she dipped her fingers into the water and then withdrew immediately, reconsidering putting any of the arctic-resembling liquid on her face, even if she was covered in mud. Clenching her hand into a fist, she breathed hot air over her skin and stared at her surroundings. The wind had died down slightly and the sun peeked carefully from the shifting clouds. An endless stretch of ocean expanded in front of her. Rippling greys and flashes of white tips.

"John!" she called behind her, waiting for him to catch up. "There's a bit green slime here you haven't given me a lecture on yet."

She laughed in amusement at her own stupid mockery, and then turned around to smirk at him as he walked slowly toward her. "Coming?"

"The sea starts freezing at around negative two degrees," he said absently as he finally reached her position on the jetty. "Celsius. Because of the salt. Has to be colder."

His eyes brushed over the endless waves. "But, ah… it only freezes on the surface. The whole ocean doesn't freeze because… the colder the water is, the more dense it becomes. Molecules pack tighter."

John swallowed, blinking and pressing his palms together. "The salt… the salt sinks. More salt… less freezing." He hummed, but didn't seem interested in what he was saying. Still blinking, his eyes darted from either side of him.

"Look." Clara pointed at the wood. "Weird slime."

He didn't seem interested in that either.

"John?" she frowned, watching him in confusion. "All right?"

"Mmm." He nodded and then remained staring motionlessly at the water.

Clara frowned again, the lingering press of a previous admission filtering into her mind as she watched him. He looked like he was about to start panicking. "Fuck, John, are you—?"

She gave a weary sigh as she realised and began pushing him backwards towards the shore. "What are you doing, you idiot? What are you trying to prove? Fucksake."

"So strong." He smiled before wiping his eyes. "So brave."

"So stupid," she growled, shaking her head and pulling him further back onto the rocks.

"Bit scared of the sea."

"Yeah. Obviously."

"Mmm…." He seemed to reconsider his confession, but only to upgrade it. "Really scared of the sea. I was just checking I still was. The result is—I am." He pushed a hand across his muddy hair. "Awfully irrational. I'm too old for that. Should have gotten over it by now."

"Maybe. You told me before but I forgot, I'm sorry." She sighed again and leant against his arm for a moment. "Want to tell me about it?"

"There's not really much to say. I was nine. And I went out too far."

Shrugging, he cast his gaze over her shoulder and back to the jetty. "It's only the sea," he frowned, reasoning. "And going in the water. I like inland lochs or lakes and rivers. The water is calmer. Here, it's not."

He stared accusingly at the choppy waves. "Why do people even like going in there? What's wrong with _them?_ It's full of bitey fish. Sharks? You can't even see what you're doing if you're swimming. There could literally be anything beside you, waiting to chew on your limbs. It's cold and wet and if you're thirsty, you can't drink it. Terrible."

"Scared of the sea and allergic to dogs. What a mess."

"Disaster."

"So many… problems."

"Mmm. I'm afraid of seventy one percent of the Earth's surface."

"Well…" she trailed, raising her eyebrows. "On the plus side, I guess you're lucky it's not the twenty nine percent you have a problem with."

"That is a good point," he nodded, considering. "Imagine having to live on a boat. I really hate boats." His brows creased before he gave her a wide smile, crossing his arms decisively. "I feel better about that now. Thanks. It would be much more irrational of me if I were scared of land. Can you make me un-allergic to dogs?"

"John," Clara said seriously, smiling back. "Listen. I'm not your _saviour._ I'm not miracle Jesus with a hero-complex. _You_ have to fix you. It's the only way. I just want to… help you, help yourself. You have options."

His warm laugh sounded out into the cold air and then he pressed a freezing palm into the side of her face for quick revenge.


	7. Stupid Games

**Chapter 7: Stupid Games**

* * *

Three days. They lasted almost three full days before the real trouble began. Everything had all been going extremely well until the two of them decided to play a very stupid game.

Three days was impressive in itself. Clara almost wanted to congratulate herself on her own self control, because quite frankly, she was struggling. She had no idea how long she was supposed to think she would be able keep this up for. If he had made any sort of amorous advance, she was almost positive she would have broken. When she looked at him, her firm resolve seemed deluded and at most times, pointless. Later, when alone, she would reconsider and remind herself why _friends_ was the best solution for their relationship.

The list of reasonings seemed to be growing continually smaller the longer she spent with him, and eventually Clara felt as if the only good thing about their immediate situation was that was she was simply proving Amy wrong in her theory about what sort of holiday this was.

Yet John keep his distance, and did so to the point where she began wondering if he had changed his mind about her. Perhaps this was what he really did want. He'd only been divorced for five minutes and certainly maintained a wish to adhere to their agreement. She continually wondered, but then he would say equivocal things, or she would catch him looking at her from across the room, quietly staring before ducking his eyes and feigning ignorance.

If there was a test to define friendship, then they would have passed with flying colours. Other than the raging conflict inside her head, their external actions probably could have been argued as representative of a total platonic state.

Friends trapped on an island, Clara had been told Skye's history forwards, and then backwards, and then was quite literally quizzed at random periods during the day— _I'm just checking you're listening, Clara_ —which she rather enjoyed, and which he rather seemed to enjoy until she pointed out some inconsistencies in his own facts, and once realising she was right, had gotten grumpy and not spoken to her for three hours while she laughed uncontrollably and made his fragile state worse.

She knew about the birds and the geography and why they hadn't yet seen a golden eagle— _Honestly, I've seen them every other time, maybe they don't like the English_ —and she had watched him paint, a trying moment that had tested her stoic resolve. In a move which she was positive he did on purpose to taunt her, he insisted he could only _make art_ if he wasn't wearing a shirt. His ridiculous claim was matched with his laughing eyes as he threw his t-shirt at her. Clara had retreated to the couch, muttering under her breath she hadn't signed up for a recreation of Jack and Ianto's stripper procession and that she would just do something else.

An impossible claim—she watched his profile from the couch, the book in her hands completely ignored as his expression transformed into avid concentration while he drew meticulous lines in pencil before beginning to add colour and water. His pale, slim and muscular body shifted around his right arm gliding over the paper. She couldn't understand how unbelievably distracting it was. Eventually she just had to give up and walk away, the direction of her thoughts completely out of control. Swearing at herself, she went out the front door and stood in the cold for ten minutes, frowning and contemplating again at just how long exactly she was supposed to keep up a resistance.

Adamant to keep her on his twenty-one-meals-plan, John cooked for her with such fastidious and diligent sincerity that the action became a little overwhelming for her. She offered assistance to counter the emotion, and while at first not wanting her help, he later conceded because he either needed it, or finally quietly understanding that she wasn't able to accept kindness like this so readily. Alternatively, she made various excuses under the guise of light chastising— _I don't understand how it is possible to consistently burn toast_ —and so instead they shared the task.

While he showed her the island with his ardent and warm enthusiasm, in the periods of quiet they offered each other fragments of memories, childhood and family, moments of importance in their completely different lives.

And so it was, on their third full day trapped on an island, while rain and wind battered against the wide but covered window in the living room, the stupid game began. John had disappeared down the road, grumbling something about _having to visit the other humans_ and left Clara alone for the evening after dinner. The fire washed heat over the sprawled position she had assumed on the couch to read her book. The stack of firewood seemed to be a consistent source of amusement to her everytime she got up to refresh the flames. The barren island had a significant lack of anything resembling something that might have been defined as a tree.

It was late when John returned. And like the weak and suffering friend she was, she had felt his absence rather acutely, entirely glad to have him back.

"Don't go outside!" came an angry yell from the door before it was slammed shut. "Fucksake. You personally, will get lifted over the cliff."

His hair was sticking up at all angles, cheeks red and eyes glistening from the cold. He threw off his coat and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor—a continual habit—did the same with his boots and then bounded over to her. "Look what _I've_ got," he grinned, delighted with himself.

An unopened bottle of whisky was thrust directly in front her eyes. He withdrew it before she had time to properly read the label on the front.

"It's from—" He pointed vaguely through the wall, waving his arm. "Here. Over there. Talisker Distillery. Which is… south. South west. It's on the coast. By some rocks. By the sea. Colin knows someone who knows someone, which means he's suddenly ended up with a fucking shed full of the stuff. I bet you hate whisky. Am I right?"

"You are correct," she grinned, partly so because of his quick rambling. "Yuck."

"Fucking typical. But you'll like this one. Trust me. I like it. It's more sweet than smokey. Tastes like salt and wood."

"Do you have to fit every Scottish stereotype, John?" she murmured, smiling at the bottle.

"Yes," he expressed. "I mean—aye. I don't have a kilt on me, but I could go and borrow one from th—" His speech abruptly cut off.

" _What_ is that?" Utter disgust filled his voice.

Clara turned her attention to his eyes, confused. "What?"

" _That."_ He pointed at her hands.

Clara grinned and exhaled laughter as she realised what he was referring to. She was reading a book on an e-reader. "Kindle."

"Get out."

She bit her tongue to stop further amusement as he pointed adamantly towards the front door.

"Clara," he growled, insistent. "It's not a real book! With pages and ink! It doesn't smell like a book or look like a book, and—oh, look. It's not a fucking book. It's a book traitor!"

"No—no," she laughed as he made a swipe for it. She pressed it into the space between her body and the couch so he couldn't grab it from her. "I seriously thought that as well," she explained quickly, her grin expanding as his expression transformed into a scowl. "But trust me, these things are amazing."

He crossed his arms. "Did you buy that?"

"No. Amy got it for me."

"Amy?" he asked in a low growl, pulling a face.

"Look, I basically had your exact reaction. But you just need to have a go on it"—She offered the device tentatively towards him—"and you'll change your mind."

"There's a whole shelf of _real_ books."

"I don't want to read about rock formations anymore," she complained, pressing her head back into the couch and trying to remove her teasing smile.

"I'm not having that in my house. Either it goes, or you go."

"Thought it was _our_ house now," she smirked, raising her eyebrows. "Us and our forty nine cats."

"Well, I'm the boss."

"Actually, _I'm_ the boss," she corrected.

John frowned, shaking his head. "There can't be two bosses."

"Exactly. Which is why it's me."

"Why don't we both be the boss, but I'm just a little bit _more_ of the boss."

"Let's have a democratic vote."

"Fine," he shrugged. "I vote for myself."

"Can't vote for yourself."

"All right, I vote for you, and you vote for me."

"Actually, you voted for me, and I didn't show up to the polls due to candidate disinterest. So, I've just won the election. Ha-ha."

The expression she had aptly labelled as 'the disgruntled child' formed on his face. "No—that's completely unfair!"

"Stop arguing with democracy."

"I hate democracy."

"Not my fault if all your policies were rubbish and your campaign was terrible." Clara shrugged, grinning again. "Will of the people."

"It wasn't a fair election!"

"Don't care. Now that we've established who's the boss, can you please make a cup of tea? I've been waiting hours for you to get back so you could make me one."

"No."

"Don't make me turn this into a fascist regime."

"You'd make an excellent dictator," he muttered under his breath, pressing one mismatched sock into her foot.

"Tea."

"Fine," he grumbled, glaring at her. "I'll make you a stupid tea."

"If you're thinking about putting sugar in it for revenge like last time, you're just going to end up making another one, so you might as well save yourself some time and do it correctly."

"Yes, _sir,"_ he stressed, tapping a salute and then extending his arm out in a way that really did signify her dominant rule as a fascist leader.

"Hang on," he paused, spinning back on his retreat to the kitchen and holding up the bottle in his hand. "We were having some of this. Would you like a glass? Or there's also wine somewhere, if you prefer. Missy left some when she was here in August."

"I only drink wine from the Piedmont '96 vintage," she informed. "I'm very particular."

"Well, thank fuck for that," he exclaimed, opening a top cupboard. "It's exactly what we've got."

"What are the chances."

"Only the best for my lord and commander." He sent her a grin from across the room and then frowned. "Wait. No. Clara, you're not having wine or tea. You're going to try this. Like we decided hours ago."

After clambering loudly around the kitchen and banging cupboard doors shut, John eventually passed her a glass of the dark golden liquid. "If I get my hands on that fake, heathen book, it's going over the cliff."

"You'll be buying me a new one. A better one."

"Like hell I will be. I'm doing you a favour. I'll go to the shops and buy every single one, drive back here and throw them over the cliff one at a time."

She breathed out amusement as he closed his eyes and put a hand behind his ear. "Mmm. I can already hear their little screens breaking on the rocks."

"You would change your mind if you had a go."

"Wouldn't be seen dead with one. Fucking disgrace. You should be over at that shelf apologising individually to every real and inky page."

A wide grin flashed on his mouth and then he sat down on the floor in front of her, placing his forearm into the couch by her shoulder, leaning forward expectantly and waiting for her to taste. She moved to sit a little more upright and took a tentative sip.

"Like it?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you just saying that to be nice?"

"Yes." She smiled at his doleful expression. "No, look, it's okay. It's just very strong."

"You'll get used to it." He twisted around and pressed his back against the couch beside her.

Sipping slowly, Clara went back to her— _heathen_ —book, her senses gradually adjusting to the taste and then deciding it was rather good. In front of her, John closed his eyes, his profile lit in the fire. Distracted, she watched him from the corner of her eye, hesitant to stare at him openly in case he caught her doing it. He tapped something rhythmic on his thigh for awhile, drinking from his own glass and eventually clambered up before returning to his former position with a pencil and paper. She assumed he was going to sketch, but instead drew six straight lines and began writing numbers over them.

"What are you doing?"

"Hmm?" he murmured, twisting his head back to look at her.

She nodded at his paper.

"Oh," he blinked, understanding. "A tab. Just a little riff. For someone at the studio. I can hear the notes in my head." He smiled, tapping the pencil on his temple. "I don't really need the guitar."

He hummed the quiet tune, running a finger over the numbers. "The lines here are the guitar strings, see? And the numbers on them just show what fret to put your fingers on."

"What does the 'h' mean?" she asked, curious and indicating to the small bracketed letter placed between two numbers.

"Hammer."

She blinked and then smirked. "Expensive way to play a song."

John grinned as he realised her joke. He tapped his head back against the couch in reprimand. "It means 'hammer on'," he explained. "When a note is already sounding, you press a finger into the fret on the same string. Like a hammer. Get it?"

"Mmm… no."

He smiled again and glanced at his guitar on the opposite couch. "I'll show you later." His gaze flickered to her empty glass. "Did you enjoy that?"

She nodded, grinning at his expectant look. "Did actually. Once my mouth finished being assaulted."

Smirking, he followed her movements as she held it out to him. "Can I have more? Please."

"Let's play a game."

"Um… what game?" she replied, uncertain when he didn't take his eyes from her.

"A game."

"John… you have this tendency to assume I can decipher your vague sentences."

"A drinking game."

Unimpressed, she sighed and frowned at him, trying to now decipher what he was doing. "Aren't we a little old for that?"

His returning smile was aimed at the flames. "I didn't get to go to university so I would like to make up for it now."

Clara smiled at his profile. "You should go to university."

Skeptical, he raised his eyebrows and twisted back to face her. "Clara, can you imagine how I would handle sitting in a hall surrounded by people?"

"I wasn't suggesting you enrol as a student. I was suggesting you stand up the front giving lectures on rocks and trees."

The returning laugh was so ardently sincere that it instantly put a soft smile on her face. She was suddenly quite certain that being able to make him laugh like that was the best thing she had ever achieved, all twenty nine years included.

"I think that might require a few certificates and greater understanding of subject than just reading a few books in a dressing room," he said quietly as he smiled back at her.

Sighing, he tilted his head and then looked a little regretful. "I would have liked that."

"Uni?"

"Well, yes. And being an actual scientist."

"What sort of scientist?"

"All the sciences."

"You probably would have needed to… specialise in something," she acknowledged. "At some point."

"I would have specialised in everything." He stared across at his guitar. "Pipe dream. But… Clara." His voice was absent as he fixated on the instrument. "I am really good at music."

The flash of confidence and self awareness made her insides feel like they were slowly melting. She reached out her hand and brushed through his hair, soft curls threading between her fingers.

"Sorry," she murmured, shy as she realised what she was doing and withdrawing quickly.

"Don't apologise," he replied, swallowing and then jumping up to maneuver back into the kitchen.

"Right, these are the rules," he announced as he brought the bottle of whisky back to the fire.

"You seriously want to do this?" she frowned, watching him pour them each another glass.

She wasn't sure this was going to be a good idea. Her own experiences with these sort of games had swung from one extreme to another.

He ignored her hesitation with a smile. "I'll ask a question and if you don't want to answer, then you have to have a drink. Or if you do answer, I have to drink instead. Then you ask a question. Does that work out?" He narrowed his eyes, considering. "Yeah. That works."

"What sort of questions?"

He shrugged. "Anything. Start easy."

"Start easy implies you're going to eventually ask difficult questions."

"Well, obviously. Haven't you played 'ask people intrusive questions under the guise of alcohol' before? I guess they have to be personal enough that it incites a reason not to answer."

Clara began laughing slightly, a dark and sinister chuckle that made him pause and frown.

"What?"

"I just…" She shook her head. "These games are honestly terrible. Once I played some variation of this with Amy, and some girl started accusing her she'd slept with her boyfriend. She ended up throwing her drink in Amy's face. Glass included. I don't even think Amy knew who this guy was. But she found out and then slept with him about a week later for revenge."

"Right," John announced with a smug smile. "That's very interesting."

Clara blinked, considering. "Yeah. That was… Amy did actually have a really problematic stage. Anyway. Fuck. Don't tell her I told you that."

"Clara—Obviously I'll be using that against her if she ever wants to start yelling at me about decent morals again."

Powerless, she pulled a face and sighed. "John, seriously, as someone with a little experience, you should know these games don't usually end up finishing well."

"Nonsense."

"Don't blame me then if you don't like what I ask."

"Ask whatever you want. I don't care."

"What an excellent idea this is," she said slowly.

"Don't have to. Just something to do." He stretched out his legs and tilted his head back against the couch so he could look at her. "You can just lie there and be boring if you want," he added casually, taunting. "I don't care."

"Right," she decided, knowingly falling into his trap. "We'll play the stupid game then."

"Good."

"Great."

"Fine."

"We should get some better adjectives for this," she suggested, shifting to sit beside him on the rug, back against the couch.

"Marvelous."

"Phenomanal."

"Nice. No—that's not mine." Smiling, John tipped his head sideways. "That was just a compliment."

"Nice compliment. Who starts?"

"Me," he affirmed, touching fingers to his chest.

"Why?"

"Just do."

"I want to start," she frowned, glancing toward the glasses he had placed on the hearth.

"No."

"I'm the boss. I start."

He shrugged, giving in. "Fine."

"Why aren't you either an alcoholic, and, or, in drug recovery?"

John exhaled immediately, raising his eyebrows as his mouth curved into a disbelieving grin. "Clara, ah, did you get the fucking memo to start simple?"

"That was simple," she smiled, raising eyebrows and biting into her lip. Reasonably simple.

"Christ. What the fuck are you going to be asking in five questions?" He breathed out again and considered her carefully, running searching eyes over her face.

"Right. Well, alcohol makes me depressed. Not now, obviously, or I wouldn't be doing this. But in the wrong environment, it's always had the opposite effect. Which, I guess I am very grateful for." He shrugged in conclusion.

"What about drugs?"

His brows drew together and he sighed, clearly hesitant.

"You don't have to answer," she said softly, forgetting somewhat this was a game.

"Well aware of that, Clara," he replied, smiling a little. "Drugs… would have been an absolute disaster. Easy path for someone like me, right?"

"Suppose," she murmured quietly, letting him continue.

"I just… reacted so early to what was happening to me, and so violently towards it, that Ed and Hamish had time to realise what it could turn into. They didn't control what I did, but I did listen to them. We had moments and… Ed had his own problems for awhile. I don't think many people know that. Maybe don't tell anyone."

Clara shook her head for reassurance.

"But…" He ducked his head and scrubbed a hand slowly through his hair. "I couldn't write or function musically if I was high, either. And I was so focused on that, that I was averse to taking away a creative outlet. I wiped out both rather fast."

"Sober genius."

"I just had other vices, I suppose," he admitted, staring into the fire.

"Sex," she suggested without emotion.

His eyes flashed, suddenly cautious and hesitant. "I'm starting to change my mind about this game now."

"Maybe we should stop and do something else."

"Like what?"

"Literally anything else would be a better idea."

"No." He shook his head, resolve entering his expression. "I want to play."

"Your turn then."

"You have to drink first," he reminded her, pointing. "Because I answered."

She picked up her glass and did as he said, absently taking another sip to wipe out the strong taste, forgetting she was drinking the same substance.

"Marvelous starter question, Oswald," John congratulated, smiling and showing teeth.

"I know. Thanks. I'm phenomenal at this game."

"How many men have you slept with?"

"Jesus," she breathed in surprise at the abrupt return. "All right. Calm down."

"Don't think I don't know how to play this game too." He smiled again, staring up to the ceiling for a short moment and then looking back at her, waiting.

"Twenty thousand," she sighed, wiping fingers over her eyes and already starting to feel like she knew where the tone of this might be heading.

"Serious answers only," he demanded slowly.

Clara exhaled, pulling a face. He didn't need to know that. Absolutely not. She picked up her glass and gave him a non-responsive reply.

"Really? I answered your one."

"Your rules, _mate,"_ she stressed, shrugging and lowering her hand, placing the glass back on the hearth. "You're supposed to use the harder questions when I'm more intoxicated, idiot. Increases your chances."

John looked slightly annoyed, brows creasing. "I'll just ask you again later."

"Can't do that either."

"I make the rules."

Instead of pointlessly arguing with him, she continued on. "Where do you meet women willing to have a long-term and covert sexual relationship with you?"

"Fucking hell," he exhaled, incredulous.

"I'm guessing they were mostly long-term," she pondered, ignoring his dumbstruck look. "Keeping multiple fleeting relationships out of the press would have been a lot more difficult."

The glass met his lips, a definitive and unequivocal response. She gave him a pleasant smile and drew her legs up, tapping fingers on her knees. A torrent of rain battered the window and pummeled the roof before gradually easing back to its consistent but quieter patter above. It was overly warm next to the fire and she could feel the sliding heat of alcohol taking effect.

Clara glanced at him. "Your turn."

John regarded with a curious stare and then—"Do other men know what to do with you?"

"You mean other men that aren't you?"

"Yes."

"In what way?" she asked blankly for clarification, unnecessary but just wanting to hear him say it.

"In-bed way."

Clara sighed internally and reached for her glass. Before she could touch it, he leant forward and flattened his other hand over the rim so she couldn't take it. There was nothing aggressive or controlling about the move, he was just giving her another moment to reconsider her choice.

"Do other men know what to do with you?" he repeated slowly.

She pushed his hand away, snickering at the thought he was seriously entertaining the idea that she might answer that question, and picked it up.

"Are you going to answer anything?" John frowned, annoyed as she took a sip.

"Ask a question I want to answer and you'll get a different result."

"I think the logic in this game might be flawed."

"You made the rules," she reminded him. She leant her head back and her eyes followed the wooden beams stretching from wall to wall.

"Your turn," John informed her, drawing his legs up to replicate her position and wrapping his hands around his shins.

She didn't really want to play this game. Possible queries filtered through her head and she settled on continuing her own theme, realising she was at least enjoying making him squirm. "The woman you were sleeping with who did threaten to go to the press, what made her want to do that?"

John groaned and dropped his head, knocking his forehead twice in exasperation against his knee. "Fucksake, Clara."

" _John,"_ she countered, unconcerned. "What exactly were you expecting? If you want to ask your stupid questions, you have to deal with mine."

She didn't expect him to provide an answer to her question, the theory confirmed as he took a gulp of the golden liquid and turned to her to retaliate.

"Have you slept with someone older before?"

"Another _excellent_ question," Clara drawled, breathing out. She considered actually answering this one—it wasn't a difficult reply—yet decided she would rather see how long it would take to really annoy him. "You're not really that much older than me."

He shrugged. "Twelve years seems like a lot."

"It's not. Are all your questions going to be following this theme?"

"Maybe."

"I'm not answering any of them. Just so you know."

"Then what's the point of playing?" John frowned, daunting eyebrows drawing together with further annoyance.

"Well, exactly. What is the point?" Clara sighed again and put fingers through her hair. She smiled absently at the action, having done the same thing this afternoon as she tried to rid herself of the persistent, entangled relationship her hair wanted with the wind on this island.

"No," John stated firmly over her drifting thoughts. "I'm going to get something out of you. Keep drinking."

She breathed amusement and took her glass, pausing as her eyes ran over the label on the bottle beside it. She blinked as she proceeded to read the words. "Fuck," she exhaled, grinning. "John, have you seen the percentage on that?"

"Mmm. It's…" He squinted at the fifty eight percent label and shrugged. "It's twenty five years old, too."

"Christ. How… much is that worth?"

"I would imagine… about three or four hundred quid?"

"Oh my god," she groaned, weary. "Why does Colin-From-Down-The-Road have bottles of it stashed away in a shed? Did he acquire them illegally? Why did he give you one? Who are you?"

"Are any of those your next question?"

"No," she smiled, leaning into his arm for a moment.

"We could drive down to the distillery tomorrow," he suggested, "and buy one of the three thousand pound variety."

" _No,"_ she growled again, suspicious that he was being serious as he grabbed the bottle and poured over fifty pounds into her near empty glass. "Hey—that's about three shots."

"Answer some questions and you won't have to drink it."

"Drink myself into susceptibility," she muttered, taking a sip. "I know your plan, Smith."

"I've got no plan." He stretched out his arms and then folded them across his chest.

Clara drummed fingers over her lips in consideration, opting to push his limits. "Where did you go to sleep with these women? Hotel?"

He shook his head, not in reply, but in irritated disbelief to her persistence. Which felt rather hypocritical seeing as he was persistent on his own intrusive thread. Clara started to consider what they were doing really was going to be damaging. Rather than being able to brush her questions aside, he was clearly becoming uncomfortable. She decided it best to stop the line of enquiry. If _he_ stopped his line of enquiry first.

John swallowed and ran fingers quickly over his mouth. "Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Because I desperately want to go and fantasise about it later," she said blankly.

He didn't find her reply amusing. In any case, neither did she.

"Fine," he shrugged, staring fixedly into the fire and doing a bad job at covering his unsettled movement. "Yes. Hotels. Discreetly in hotels. Okay?"

Lifting her shoulders, impassive, she retrieved her glass.

"How many men have you slept with?" he shot back as she was still drinking.

"Can't ask the same question twice," she replied through her teeth. "Try again."

"My rules."

"Then you're going to get the same response."

He breathed out through his nose and scrubbed a hand over his forehead, again unhappy with her reply. He muttered something under his breath she didn't hear over the rain. She had no real understanding why he wanted to know this, unable to decide whether this was something from the dangerous container of insecurity or just pure interest. The repetition made the latter seem a little unfeasible.

"Were you going to marry Danny?"

 _Fucking hell—_

"He didn't ask," she swallowed, astounded. The man was relentless as she was.

"If he asked, what would you have said?"

"I answered your question," she snapped, shaking her head quickly.

"Just tell me, Clara," he growled back immediately.

She frowned. She must have truly agitated him with her infidelity thread for him to even consider bringing something like that up. "I don't know. He didn't ask, and I don't know what I would have said. I've never been sure about marriage. All right?"

She didn't bother waiting for him to take his required drink. "Why do you have a problem waking up with me in the morning?"

"Fuck!" John expressed in a loud growl, reaching immediately for his glass and taking a larger than necessary gulp. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What the fuck are _you_ doing?" she repeated under her breath, looking away from him and into the flames. That had been reckless. She was starting to feel the alcohol implementing its creeping effect. She needed to be careful. This was far from an appropriate environment for either of their rash and imprudent questions. There would be—

"Why have you not seen a psychiatrist at any point within the last two months?"

 _—consequences._

She felt her heart drop and blood pulse in her head. He was more than capable of playing her game. John stared at her, giving her a chance to answer before looking deliberately at her glass and then back to her face, daring her to pick it up.

"Don't tell me what to do," she retaliated at his provocation.

"I didn't," he said slowly, indifferent.

Time seemed to drag over the weighted silence. She gave in, knowing there would be later repercussions and reached towards it. Her fingers connected with the cold glass, knocking the liquid from its still rest. Eyes like ice, John leant back and shrugged as she took a meagre sip, gaze not leaving her face until she returned it. The sting assaulting her tongue felt only minor to her resentment of having to concede.

The tone in the room had changed. A building tension was rising. The smart thing to do would be to stop it now, before it got out of hand, before something was asked they really might both regret. Clara opened her mouth to call an end to this stupid game. It would be a reasonable request, after all. She was tired, it was late, and more substantially—she was getting herself intoxicated, which also wasn't a good idea. She looked at his impenetrable, yet edging with smug expression, and the excuses died before they could pass her lips. Continuing assertively, she completely removed any ability to backtrack from a more contentious path before logic and reason could push forward in protest. Temptation dominated and she asked the confrontational question before she could stop herself, the words tumbling from her mouth in a treacherous rush.


	8. Fifty Eight Percent Off Advantage

**Chapter 8: Fifty Eight Percent Off Advantage**

* * *

Making terrible decisions while angry was something Clara thought she could probably go and collect an award for. The last few weeks were certainly evidence enough to corroborate the achievement, if there was any lingering doubt about the matter. She waved to the cheering crowd and took her two trophies back down into the allocated seating for the ceremony. In one hand, Making Terrible Decisions While Angry, and in the other, Unnecessarily Ruining A Good Relationship.

"Why don't you think I trust you?"

 _Why don't you think I trust you?_

Clara heard the question twice, once as she said it aloud, again as she echoed the words to herself with disbelief. In another circumstance, it should have been inconsequential. A quiet query spoken in kindness and safety. But here, like _this,_ it would only ever be an attack. Aggressive and provoking, more of an accusation than anything else, she made no external attempt to redact the words and somewhere in her head she felt the distant crash of _mistake._

John's eyes flashed as he stared at her. For the briefest of moments, she thought his face may have fallen as his mind ticked over, slipping from his impassive demeanour into something she wasn't quick enough to recognise. Before she could even focus on what he had briefly conveyed, she was met with his stoic expression.

"I do," he responded with complete ease, his face wiped clean from any sign of infliction. Looking away, he tapped the rim of the glass with a slender finger. His hand rose and he ran the same finger across his mouth as if consuming the light touch would remove the evidence he had made any contact with it at all.

He was lying. She didn't need an expression to tell her that. She could read it in his body, the faint shift as his muscles tightened, the almost imperceivable way his eyes darkened before he reset to familiar austerity.

The precarious path of anger opened wide in front of her, its tempting pull coercing her inwards, willing her to explore the pulsing chaos waiting inside. Her heart pounded and prickling blood pulsed in heated waves through her head. John pushed back into the couch, mouth set in a hard line. There was a moment—a tiny flash of an exit as he looked away into fire. A small mercy she could give to both of them and simply stop. Walk away. He was allowing her the opportunity to use her inebriation as an excuse, they could halt here and be okay, and in the morning they could ignore it, forget it, pretend it didn't happen.

Yet _there it was,_ that old defiance, the anger that sparked blunt and impetuous decision in her, and fast dispersed her rational. She surprised herself again with her audacity.

"Not a good enough answer."

Catching her off guard, John lifted his hand and swallowed a large portion of his drink, almost draining the entire glass. His following look challenged her to defy him, again willing her to question the action. It was almost impossible not to react. Protesting, she reached out far too late to halt his response as he brought the glass down.

"You can't do that," she objected, growling.

"Yet I'm following the rules," he snapped back. His tone matched her own.

"Then I'm changing the rules."

"That's hardly fair. And to what? I have to answer everything and you don't? Fuck off."

Heated words, a burst of charged assault cutting through the tension stretching between them. Aware at how unreasonable she was sounding but not caring, Clara pressed onwards.

"Answer my question," she demanded.

"Answer mine," shot back the reply, the response leaving his mouth before her demand was completed. John bared his teeth at the floor and then he stretched the muscles in his neck, agitated and tense.

"Certainly learning a lot about each other now, aren't we," he snarled under his breath, placing the glass down. There wasn't an inkling of warmth in his tone, only aggravation. "Might as well keep this in my fucking hand. My turn. Tell me how many men you've slept with."

"Fuck"—Clara drank from her glass in disgust—"off."

"I'll say a number and you tell me if I'm close or not."

"John," she snapped back. "I said _fuck off._ I'm not answering this question. So shut the fuck up, please. It's my turn." Clara grit her teeth and then faced him directly. "Are you scared of me?"

"No," he growled. The reply was too fast for her to consider honesty.

"You said you were scared of me."

He shook his head and raised his hands, clearly angry. "Not a fucking question."

"Why're you scared of me?"

"Your turn is over. I answered. Drink." He pointed at her glass. The words were laced with a tone matching the cold determination setting in his eyes.

"Stop lying to me," she accused, frowning.

"I'm not lying."

"Well, I think you were."

"If you already know the answer, then why ask?"

"Because I don't know the answer," she snapped.

John was more than irritated now; a muscle twitching in his jaw, fingers tapping repetitively on the rug, unable to maintain any form of stoicism.

"You asked me a polar question and I said 'no'. If you already think the answer is 'yes', then there wasn't any point in asking."

"I asked you _why,"_ she corrected, growling at his resistance.

"Okay, _fine,"_ he conceded, lifting his shoulders. He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips, keeping her eyes as the liquid tipped into his mouth. "There's my answer."

"Don't complain to me again about how I'm not answering your questions," she muttered through her teeth, watching him return it with a purposely loud thud.

"Your turn is over," John retorted. "Shut up."

"You need to calm down," she shrugged, patronising.

"About what? I'm following the rules. You're the one trying to change them to benefit you."

Clara ground her teeth together again, now hearing the grating sound inside her skull. Agitated, she focused on her condition before she gave him back her attention. "We need to stop playing now, I think."

That seemed to be quite possibly the most sensible idea she had ever heard leaving her mouth.

"I don't think it's the right environment anymore for you to be drinking," she added, fixing him with an expectant glare.

"We don't need to stop, you need to just calm down on your fucking invasive and aggressive interrogation."

Shaking her head, she laughed without a shred of humour. "John, what exactly did you expect? If you're going to ask me why I'm not seeing a fucking psychiatrist, then I'm going to ask you something fucking personal right back. That's how it works. Don't be angry because I'm playing the game properly."

"Stop asking me those types of questions."

"I will if you stop with your insecure bullshit. If you wanted to know how many men I've slept with, you didn't need to disguise it under a fucking game. You could have just asked."

"What's the answer then?"

 _"Fuck,"_ Clara breathed out in disbelief at his prurient insistence. "You know what? How about you just total up the number of women you've slept with and then remove ninety percent of it. Probably start getting close to a ballpark figure."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

"Is this what _you_ want? A conversation about all the women I fucked behind my wife's back? Want me to go through every one individually, tell you who they were and what we did? Will that make you feel better?"

"That isn't what I want," she swallowed. "I don't want any of this. It was your idea. John—I forgave you. There wasn't any terms and fucking conditions attached. I don't know how to make you accept that."

"Yeah? Well, all of your forgiveness is coming across really clearly while you sit here forcing me to give you details."

"I don't even want to know about those women! Fucksake. I don't care who they were. I just didn't like your questions. It shouldn't be a problem."

He shook his head and smiled into the fire, a bitter, resentful expression. "In what fucking world would that not be a problem for me?"

"The one where you calm the fuck down and understand I'm not interested in your extramarital affairs."

"Then why are you attacking me with it? You've answered your own fucking question about trust, if you haven't realised. This is pointless. I'm done. You can play alone. Start by asking yourself why your boyfriend might have fucking cheated on you."

Clara closed her eyes as the weight of his words hit her like dropping into an icy bath of water.

"Thanks," she muttered under her breath. Probably, a good place to finish.

"No, wait, wait, wait. Clara, stop—"

He grabbed her wrist as she moved, trying to pull her back down. She pushed him off and started removing herself from this situation, walking toward the hallway.

"Clara. I didn't mean that. Clara—"

"Don't," she snapped, trying to remove his grasp as he pulled her around.

He tightened the grip around her arm as she moved backwards. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, I didn't, please. I didn't." He was frantic, insistent with pleading remorse.

"Don't touch me."

"Clara, please."

"Just… leave me alone," she muttered, peeling his fingers from her arm and walking away. She slammed the bedroom door shut.

 _Fuck_ —

Helpless, Clara pressed hands into her eyes as her mind reeled with sickening regret and anger. Small self review—she had handled that in absolutely the worst possible way. Placing her palms into the wall, she ducked her head and cursed at the floor under her breath. Frustration centred at the forefront of her mind. The entire thing should have been a harmless, stupid exercise. It shouldn't have mattered. It was utterly absurd that two rational adults were fighting like this _over a game._ Except she undoubtedly had anger issues and he was just… well—whatever the fuck was wrong with him. The alcohol was obstructing her ability to think clearly. Unease coiled and tightened in her chest.

Forcing herself to relax, she deliberated quickly on how to resolve this. _In no world_ would she be able to leave this as it was now.

Quick decision.

Marching back out the door, Clara found him in his bedroom. She didn't bother to knock, just strode in with clear intent. He was sitting on his bed, facing away towards the window.

"We're going to hug," she announced as she arrived to stand in front of him, "and then be sensible about what's happening here."

Before he could answer, she sat down and put her arms around his shoulders, pulling him towards her. She wasn't sure if she would have done that if she hadn't been affected by alcohol. She could feel it circling her system, leading her impulses. A low tolerance from months of near absentance was currently taking its toll.

The three seconds he took to respond felt like a lifetime of waiting. She breathed relief when he lifted his arms to return the embrace. He pressed his forehead into her neck and she heard him sigh as his fingers dug into her back.

This had been an excellent idea. The anger swirling in her head began dispersing immediately, rendered useless and unnecessary as she was enveloped in his arms. Congratulating herself on just how easy conflict could be fixed, she smiled into his shoulder as she contemplated what was happening. Obviously, in part, it was a personality clash. Neither of them wanted to back down, and both expected the other to concede. She should have been a lot more insistent in her refusal to go along with this stupid fucking game.

Thoughts drifting in the wake of suddenly being surrounded in him, she decided that the only thing she now cared about was how soft his skin felt against hers. They hadn't really touched in three days. Just small moments—hands if they exchanged something, a press on a shoulder for attention, legs brushing accidently on the couch. An extended moment like this was suddenly rather overpowering. She tightened her grip, fingers threading into his jumper.

"I'm sorry," he swallowed, voice full of regret. "Clara. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I promise I didn't mean that."

"I know. It's okay."

"Do you want to leave? I can't drive now." He sounded utterly dejected, obviously not comprehending what she had just said. "In… in the morning. I can take you to Inver—"

"Shut up, you idiot," she sighed into his shoulder. "I don't want to go home."

"But th—"

"I said shut up." She curled a hand around the back of his neck and tried to pull him closer. "I'm pretty good at saying things I don't mean when I'm angry, too. Obviously."

"I'm sorry," he whispered again. "Is this the worst holiday you've been on?"

"John," she frowned, not interested in his unhelpful anxiety. "You're just… You don't need to ask those sorts of questions. Try and have a bit of perspective, yeah? They're even more irritating than anything else."

A prolonged silence passed between them and Clara inhaled a deep breath as she contemplated what to do next. Questions like that were just part of the greater issue.

"Fuck," she breathed out in lingering and reflexive annoyance.

"What?" he replied, worry edged in his tone.

"Nothing," she reassured softly, pressing her mouth into his hair. He smelt like vanilla and… some other pleasing combination. Different soap. She smiled a little.

"I just… don't know what to do about this. But I'm pretty, pretty sure I will.

"John," she murmured, trying to continue but then having to pause, frowning as she considered the possibility she had just slurred his name. "We need to talk about this. Properly. Not… not now. But later. It's a problem. We should fix it. Probably a bigger problem than I… originally thought. I'm going to miracle Jesus the fuck out of this problem though. To the point where the church starts adding my name into sermons. I am definitely fifty eight percent affected, by the way. God that stuff was strong.

"How do you usually fix problems?" she queried, furrowing her brows at the thought.

"I don't," he mumbled, tightening his grip around her.

"Mmm," she smiled, wanting to laugh. Seemed about right. "Well, I guess you can look forward to this one being resolved."

"Clara," he continued mumbling, "I am so sorry about saying that."

"Okay," she exhaled. "I know. I've accepted. Now, just… try and forget it. I'm not holding it against you. Ever. I promise."

"Can't."

"Just try."

She sighed again, feeling the need to start apologising herself in a desperate attempt to help him understand. She stopped herself, some instinct telling her it would only complicate his situation.

"Remember that time when Jack said we were stupid?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

"He was right."

Clara felt him nod into her shoulder, wondering how tight his arms could go before he started restricting her breathing capabilities, and then decided she didn't care all that much.

"Never tell him that though," she warned quietly. "He'll use it against us for the rest of our lives."

"Kay."

"We should hug all the time," she suggested, closing her eyes and inhaling his warm scent.

"Is nice," he mumbled, twisting his head. His mouth pressed into her neck. Tiny stubble scraped over her softer skin as he moved.

Distant warning bells rang out somewhere in her head about the potential intimacy of their position. They were very close. She breathed out and hesitantly— _sensibly_ —pulled away. His constricting arms withdrew at her request and he slipped into his original position, hands in his lap. The loss of his touch left her feeling almost disgruntled.

"Know what you should have done before?" she started, thinking of something to cheer him up. "Given me your formidable _don't-interview-me_ expression. I watched a bunch of videos of you… last week? Last week."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Ianto made a playlist of his favourite moments for me. You are absolutely fucking awful at them. I didn't realise how bad. Quite literally, you are the the worst person I've ever seen in front of a camera. Have you had _any_ media training?"

"Donna tried." He flashed what might have been a genuine smile at the floor.

"I should've remembered in advance… Should have had prescient skills to know how you handle being questioned. I wish I could've seen your police interview. Remember when we got arrested? That was funny." She laughed, suddenly finding that fact overly amusing. "I punched someone _in the face."_

To her ears, his returning chuckle sounded a little suspicious.

"Are you laughing with or at me?"

He smiled into his shoulder. "Bit of both."

"I like watching videos of you. But I like watching you in real life better. I like looking at you when you're looking at rocks and trees. Your eyes go all funny. Like some random shrub is the most fascinating thing you've ever seen."

Another fleeting smile crossed his mouth. He scrubbed it away with his hand. "How's your tree tally coming along?"

"Three? I've seen three trees. Or four if I count that weird rock thing that looked like a tree. Five including the one you painted. Where're the trees?"

John shrugged slowly. "Walked away? Too cold."

"Like a triffid."

"Yeah," he smiled. "Like a triffid. Or… what's the Tolkien one?"

"Ants."

"Ents."

"Exactly what I said."

His mouth curved again with amusement, but it dropped away quickly and his gaze fixed to the darkened window. Their positions reflected back as a shrouded, dark and hazy image.

"John?" Clara said softly, shifting slightly so her shoulder was pressed against his. "You can, can ask… ask me anything you want. Anytime. You know that, right? I don't mind. I'll answer. Not as a game. Just as your friend. I'll answer all your questions.

"Probably," she added for a legal loophole, tipping her head and smiling as he looked to her. "Okay? What do you want to know? I haven't slept with anyone this much older than me before, no. What else did you ask? Total number of… men… I actually don't know off the top of my head. I'll need a stack of paper, a phone call to Amy, and a couple of hours to tally it all up."

Her attempt to keep a straight face failed and she grinned at her own stupid joke, brushing a hand over her eyes before blinking and meeting his continuous gaze. "I think when you look at me, you can already read my mind anyway. Always feels like you're in my head. _Are_ you a little bit telepathic?"

Feeling like the room was blurring a little at the edges, she gave him a slanted smile that was persistent to expand with her growing amusement. "You actually can take advantage of me now."

The curve on her mouth escalated as she thought about the idea. "I'll do whatever you want. You're the boss."

"I'm the boss?"

"I think it's best I hand this fascist regime over to you. I can't be trusted with it. Too temperamental."

"There's going to be… some serious changes," he warned, raising his eyebrows.

"You're the boss. Dictator John." Definitely the hint of a slur that time.

"Can I ask you something then?"

"Yesss," she grinned, nodding more than what was required. "Yessir."

He hesitated and then spoke with even further reluctantly. "How do you think we're… doing?"

She frowned, still distracted by her amusement and the hazy state she was entering into. She felt drunk.

 _That would probably be from the alcohol, Oswald._

"Huh?"

"How do you think we're doing?" he repeated.

"Doing what?"

"This."

"Don't have your tele—telepathy skill. Difficult word. Elabo _rate."_

He swallowed. "This _._ Us. Being friends."

"How do you think we're doing being friends?"

"Yes."

She blinked in consideration and shrugged. "Fine. We're good at being friends. If there's a test for friendship, we'd have passed with a gold sticker. Someone should make us a certificate."

"Really?"

"Marvelous. And, phenomenal. I think it's an easy ten out of ten."

John nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on her. "What about when we slept together? The other night."

"Nine out of ten." She sighed a little, not really wanting to start delving into the definition of the word _._ She only wanted to hug him again. Have his hands on her back. Maybe they could hug lying down. Mouth on her skin—

"I think… I actually think I am a bit drunk."

That seemed like a valid assessment of her condition. She stared across to the window to see if she could focus on something slightly further away, and then returned her gaze. "Are you?"

His eyes had turned incredibly soft. "Little bit," he answered, voice also having taken on a gentle edge. "But probably not as much as you."

"Doesn't seem very fair," she frowned, indignant.

He smiled again. _That_ smile. The one that made her want to never stop looking at him. His silver curls were highlighted in the soft lamplight and his pale skin was saturated golden. Blinking, Clara gave her head a tiny shake, wondering how she could have ever wanted to fight and be angry with him.

"You're doing an excellent job at staring at me."

He hummed drifting agreement and just kept up the usual unremitting gaze. She found herself fixated on his eyes, wanting to pull away but finding herself not quite capable of doing so.

"You're always staring at me," she attempted, frowning.

Nodding slowly, he started blinking like he was dragging himself out of paralysis. "You're an excellent person to stare at."

"Yeah," she agreed with a wide grin. "I know. I would stare at me."

"Interesting self-assessment," he replied, the corners of his mouth pressing with a smile.

"It's called mild narcissism. You should try it some time. Why're you staring at me?"

"Trying to decide whether taking advantage of you is a good idea or not."

"It definitely is. Take all the advantage. There's a sale on advantage. Fifty eight percent off advantage."

"Seems like a good deal," he murmured, tilting his head. "You might regret it though."

"I _don't_ actually think I would. Oh, wait, wait, wait. Wait. _Wait."_ She put a hand on his chest, clenching his jumper in her fist. _"John._ I've got a question. A really good one. A question."

"Okay," he swallowed, smiling and gentle. "Way you go."

"How much money do you have?"

Laughter crept from his mouth, a small instance of bubbling rapture before it was contained. "So much," he replied, shaking his head. "So many zeros."

"How many zeros?" The Z extended on its way through her mouth.

"Twelve. One trillion dollars."

"Didn't realise the pound was so high at the moment," she considered seriously, narrowing her eyes. "How much is a trillion dollars?"

"Just enough to buy all the Kindles in the world."

"Mmm," she agreed, nodding. "Can you save me at least one before they go over the cliff? Mine's started doing this thing where the screen jams and then it shuts down."

"You'd never see a real book doing that."

"No. No. You'd have to… I don't know. Glue all the pages together or something. And then shut your eyes for a bit." Clara started laughing at herself. Definitely, undoubtedly, slightly drunk. "That was amazing. I just created the real book version of a software error. I'm… so funny. John. You should probably congratulate me on that."

" _So_ funny."

"Ask me a question now."

"Clara," he mumbled, shaking his head slightly and smiling at the floor in front of him. "I'm not going to make you tell me things. I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Probably should. Don't waste the opportunity."

"You don't even know what you're saying."

"I'm not _that_ drunk," she frowned, disgruntled.

"That's what drunk people say."

"I'm not drunk."

"Another classic line."

"This was your original plan!" she exclaimed. "If it were the other way around, I would definitely be taking advantage of you. I would be asking you so many questions. You would just tell me everything."

"I really do want to tell you everything," he said softly. His fingers pressed gently into her shoulder and then dropped back to his lap and he turned away, eyes leaving her own.

"Can I ask you a question then?" Clara frowned, watching his hands before focusing back on his profile.

He gave a tiny smile and then nodded, staring at his knees. "Course."

"It's very, very important."

He blinked and repeated his consent. "You really can ask me anything. I'll try."

She put her hand on his thigh and clenched material between her fingers. Leaning into him, she pressed her mouth against his ear. "Do you," she whispered, "own a pair of jeans that aren't black?"

His small laugh was with etched with surprise. "I do, yes."

"Do you ever wear them?"

"I do not."

" _What_ is the point," she growled, chastising with what felt like real annoyance. "Also, why, _why're_ there _holes_ in your jumper? Did it come like that? Did you make them? What happened?"

"I was in a fight," he revealed without further explanation, touching fingers over the numerous imperfections in the black knit.

"With who?"

"A giant cactus."

"You're so weird," she snickered, starting to grin. Her forehead pressed into his hair as she swayed slightly. "Would you like to know a secret?"

"No," he murmured, shaking his head against her as she spoke into his ear. His leg shifted beneath her hand. "You shouldn't tell me anything right now."

"Why?"

"Dangerous."

Behind her, his hand slid across her back, coming to rest over her waist, pressing tingling heat through her clothing. She felt him swallow and slowly exhale.

"For who?" she muttered in reply.

"Everyone in this room."

She ignored the sensible advice. "I'm finding it very difficult to take my hand off you."

The tips of her fingers tightened on his thigh and her attention started focusing solely to the palm pressing heat through her shirt. Skimming fingers up his leg, she reached his hip and bunched her fist into the waist of his jeans. There was a suspended pause as her eyes ran slowly down his body. Other than the light rise and fall of his chest, he remained completely still. She shifted her hand to the frayed hem of his jumper and pulled at the garment.

"Clara," he murmured cautiously.

The gap allowed access and she pressed her fingers into his skin. He was boiling hot and inhaled at her touch, hands curling into fists and eyes fluttering shut, unable to refrain from reacting.

"Clara," he breathed again, this time the warning dispersing like it had never passed across his lips.

"I think I could make you beg me."

"No," he mumbled, breathless. "You couldn't."

"I don't think I would have to do much. Just—" She ran fingers along the waistband of his pants, feeling him convulse slightly at the sensitive contact as her mind raced with hazy possibility. His short breath became erratic and unsteady as she flattened her palm into his stomach, pressing again like she was searing her handprint into his flesh.

She shifted, her forehead resting upon his shoulder. He was so warm. His lips brushed over her skin and then he pressed his mouth hard into her ear.

"You have no idea what you're doing, Clara."

His tone was slick with controlled confidence. It startled her completely, his sudden change in tone catching her utterly unawares. She didn't understand the intention of the equivocal statement until he wrapped his hand around her wrist in a viselike clasp. Anymore and he would have been cutting off circulation. He dragged her fingers from his skin and let them fall back to her lap.

"I won't be begging you for anything."

The outright assertion was adamant in a way that felt almost harsh and she thought for a second he was angry again. Another caprice that she wasn't prepared for. The hand at her waist slid to thread through the back of her hair and he gently tugged her head backwards so he could push his mouth into her ear.

"Sex is my… _vice,_ remember," he whispered in a tone that made edged shards of heat cut through her body. "You're completely out of your depth."

"I could," she claimed slowly, unconvincingly. The words felt removed and pointless, like she was speaking to an impossibly high and unbreakable wall.

"Don't delude yourself, Clara," he murmured. His voice softened and his mouth moved along her jaw, lips brushing over her skin as he inhaled, breathing her in. "You'll only get frustrated."

Her body began responding to his touch. All she wanted now was to push him backwards and let him do this without the hindrance of clothing or thinking.

"Tell me something then." She couldn't tell if her words were audible or even articulate.

"What," he breathed over her mouth.

"Anything," she mumbled, closing her eyes and dropping her head as he moved to her neck. "What you think—" She swallowed, distracted. "What you think we should do now."

"I'm not supposed to tell you."

"Don't care."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he whispered slowly. He pressed his fingers and thumb around her jaw and nudged his forehead against her temple.

"I want to make you come."

Her heart stopped.

"Over and over and over again." He drew back slightly so he could see her eyes as they opened. Blinking, he wet his bottom lip and then refused to look away.

"This pain here." His hand dropped to flatten over her chest, fingertips scraping her neck. "I have been the cause of some of that. You have no—" He stopped, frowning, and his fingers returned to her jaw, tightening and controlling her movement. He twisted her head and closed the small distance so his mouth was directly on her ear. "You have no idea how much I regret it."

He released the firm grip one finger at a time and slid his palm to press against her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips before coming to rest at the corner of her mouth. "I want you to feel only pleasure. Even if it's only fleeting, temporary moments amongst a fucking avalanche of hurt."

She shut her eyes and swallowed, throat dry.

Lips pressed hard on her skin. His voice was barely audible. "Remember when we were in the bath?" He didn't wait for any sort of response. "That was just my fingers," he murmured, silky tone making her breath stop. "Imagine what I can do with my tongue."

The hand in her hair pulled to expose her throat and he ran a slow, wet line from her ear to the base of her neck. The mark burned like fire.

"I want to make you so exhausted your head won't be able to summon energy to dream. And if it does dare to defy my work… then I want you to wake up with my arms around you and I'll sing some indecipherable nonsense. And you can try again." He pulled his head away and stared at her. His eyes were black. "That's what I want. What do you want?"

What she wanted, was the simple ability to remember how to breathe and process speech properly.

"Friends don't do that," she mumbled, completely uncertain to the coherency of the statement.

"No," he agreed in a rush of hot air. "Certainly not. We can't do any of those things."

His hand slowly unwove to wrap around her shoulders. "I think I can do this though." With delicate care, he pressed his lips into her cheek and kissed her. A lingering touch.

"Just once. Because I like you." He drew back slowly and breathed out before giving her a tiny and conclusive smile.

Well. She had asked. Another wildly mercurial evening. She needed to stop getting herself in these situations. It was probably doing physical damage to her heart.

"All right?" he asked gently, watching her blinking eyes.

She nodded and swallowed, not quite sure how to speak anymore. John sighed and his gaze flickered to the table beside him before returning to her.

"I should probably go to sleep, Clara. Past my bedtime. It's midnight. Well, in fifteen minutes."

He clasped her fingers and ran his thumb over hers. "In the summer, you can read a book outside at midnight. It never really gets dark."

"I want to come here in the summer with you," she said quietly, forcing her mind to translate thought into intelligible words.

"Yeah?" He smiled. "I would like that. I write songs in the summer. When I don't feel so cold and it doesn't hurt to breathe in. I sit out there"—John nodded through the glass window—"and watch over my cliff. Remind myself I'm not really on the rocks below. Safe at the top. Do you like how I purchased my own personal metaphor?"

He chuckled, smile lingering in his eyes as his pressing laugh fell away. "You could sit beside me," he pondered. "I could write a song for you. We could… find our forty nine cats. Make an aerial for local science pirate radio. Maybe you could take me swimming. One foot at a time."

Clara nodded, curling her free hand into the jumper at his waist.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, a gentle curve touching his lips. His thumb caressed her cheek where his prior kiss had been placed. "That's why I stare at you."

Another sigh escaped his mouth, a regretful and saddened breath. "I'm so sorry about what I said," he repeated again. His eyes saturated with remorse. "I don't want to hurt you. I want the opposite."

She inclined her head and closed her eyes, lost completely in his tender voice and warm touch.

"What do you want, Clara," he asked in soft request.

"I want what you said," she whispered. Small, sincere words.

"Our little complicated situation," he exhaled, brushing hair from her forehead. "I have a compromise." John glanced behind them to the bed as she opened her eyes. "Lie down. And I'll touch you. Just a massage. Friends do that."

"Do they?" Distant, meaningless words. She didn't quite comprehend what he was suggesting. It must have shown in her expression. He gave her a tiny shrug.

"Sure. Nothing unfriendly about it."

"Is that a good idea?"

He shrugged again, breathing out. "Probably not. But I don't care. I want to touch you. This is the platonic version of pleasure.

"So," he concluded. "I could do that. If you want to."

"It's midnight."

"Nothing irresponsible has ever occurred at midnight." He smiled and awaited her reply. "Ever."


	9. Terms And Conditions

**Chapter 9: Terms And Conditions**

* * *

Obviously, because there was only one response available in her head, she said yes. _Yes_ to the unspecific and platonic event of touch.

"Yeah?" John reiterated of his question, wanting a further repeat of confirmation.

"Yes."

"Excellent decision." He grinned before jumping up and going to the window to start pulling the curtains closed. "Ah…" he trailed as he moved. "There's terms and conditions. Did I mention those five seconds ago?"

He stopped and turned around to face her sitting position on the bed as she shook her head. "You have to take off ninety nine percent of clothing."

"Why?" she asked skeptically, frowning.

He shrugged, raising a casual hand. "Better."

"What's the one percent?"

"Pants?" He smiled, raising his eyebrows fractionally. "You can keep those. Everything else… belongs to the floor." A downward pointing finger reaffirmed his instruction. "I'll turn around. Eyes on the wall."

Clara took a breath and exhaled. "Right. Doesn't seem fair."

"Oh. Well, you don't have to of course. I'm a flexible dictator."

"No. I'm implying you just do the same. To be, be even."

A humoured grin spread on his face. "Waving the red flag," he murmured, holding up his fist to wave slightly in pretence.

She breathed out a small burst of laughter and stood up, gesturing through the window. "If you call me a communist again, I'm going to throw you off your cliff."

"All _right,"_ he exclaimed in false annoyance with a pressing smile. "Didn't call you a communist. Just… implied something in that general area. And, with no sort of relevance to that topic, I've also just thought of your favourite flower."

"Does it involve roses and the colour red?"

"Maybe."

"Let's go for a nice, friendly walk outside," she growled, smiling and trying not to laugh and encourage him.

"No need. I'm _definitely_ the most versatile dictator that's ever been." He pulled off his jumper and shirt in one and discarded the garments carelessly to the floor, looking at her like he was waiting for her to do the same. She raised her eyebrows.

"Oh," he murmured. "Sorry. Turning around."

John spun in an overdramatic twist to face the desk on the other side of the room. "Did I mention I'm an expert at this? I'm very good. Someone should give me a certificate."

"I'll make you one if I'm impressed."

"Ready?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No," she repeated with a smile he couldn't see. "I haven't even started."

"So… _slow,"_ he criticized. He took off his jeans in a careless move, throwing them in the direction of the wardrobe and stood only in his pants. Clara closed her eyes for a moment, glad in that what they were about to do, she didn't have to look at him. _Distracting_ was barely adequate to cover the reaction she experienced while exposed to his tall, lean body.

"Own any pants that aren't black?"

"Are you looking at me?" John queried with distrust.

"No."

"It's not very fair that you get to look at me while I'm turned around."

"John," she declared critically. "I'm partly drunk and can still do the logic thing on that. You're about to be looking at me."

"Good… point," he said slowly. His hands raised above his head and fingers scrubbed through the back of his hair. "No. No… I only have black pants. Once I tried dark grey. But I could tell. I could tell walking around I was ruining my dark and mysterious image. Clara. There's thirty three bones in the spine."

"Knew that, actually," she replied, grinning to herself at the quick and sinuous subject change.

"Oh. Well. I'm going to count yours. Check they're all there."

"What if I'm missing one?"

"I won't tell you." Laughter spilled from his mouth in a torrent of sly humour.

Clara removed her trousers in a precarious move, holding on to the edge of the bed for support and not feeling entirely stable. "What?"

"I've got a height joke if you want it."

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to give a response.

"I'm guessing that's a no," he cackled. "Ready yet?"

"No."

"How long does it take to remove… three? Three bits of clothing. I took about seven seconds."

"It's not a competition."

"Would you like some help? Just kidding. Just a funny joke." John drummed his hands on his chest in a repeating rhythm. "I saw this, um… bloke once." He stopped and laughed. "At one of my shows. He came dressed entirely in plastic supermarket bags. I have no idea why."

His laughter repeated in a more enthusiastic manner.

"Thanks for that… excellent story."

"Anytime."

"John…" she started, frowning at his back as she removed her shirt. "We were fighting twenty minutes ago. Your behaviour. Moods. I can barely keep up."

"Oh," he said in an immediately quieter tone. "I, ah, don't know how—"

"No, no," she amended quickly. "It's not, it's not a bad thing. Just an observation. You just swing from one extreme to the other in… I don't know. Like three seconds?"

"I'm just really enthusiastic about the _next_ twenty minutes. Ready?"

"No."

"Are you deliberating?"

"Yeah," she admitted, running fingers over the strap on one side of her bra. "I'm usually… confident."

There was a pause before he spoke. "Whatever you're comfortable with, Clara," he said softly. "You can also change your mind. Obviously. We don't have to."

"No, I want to." She ran her tongue over her teeth and regarded him with partial curiosity. "This is unrelated," she informed him, "but I have a pretty reasonably sized scar on my back. Flesh wound. From the war. The great communist war."

"Sure," he said slowly after a pause. "I remember that war. Lots of… war-y things."

"Yeah. Well, you probably wouldn't have noticed it before. I mean, I know you didn't. Because you definitely would have asked about it. It was dark. Or… Anyway. You're about to see now. It's not bad. Just noticeable. So this is your warning."

"Okay," he replied, impassive and lifting his shoulders before placing fingers on his temple. "I have a scar on my head."

She smiled at his light reassurance and then decided to follow the rules. Ninety nine percent. Discarding her last item—pants of course being the remaining percentage—she put her head down in the pillows and stretched out on her front, bringing her arms up to rest upon. She assumed shifting into a horizontal position would take a toll on the alcohol in her system, but the expected dizziness remained distant or uninterested in afflicting its host.

Clara took a deep breath and lifted her head slightly. "Okay. Ready."

"Finally!" John exclaimed, jumping on the bed, literally standing over her with his feet on either sides of her hips. "Right. Here's wha—" He cut himself off. "Clara."

"Mmm?"

" _I_ was under the impression ninety nine percent of clothing meant ninety nine percent of clothing."

"Is," she grinned into the pillow.

"You're on about seventy three," he reprimanded. "I'm not having socks on my bed. Anything else—fine. Socks? Get out. It's weird."

"It's not weird. Just socks."

"Yeah? Well, guess who's in charge?"

"You."

"Correct," he pronounced loudly. "Me. I'm taking them off."

She didn't protest and felt him kneel down to grab an ankle, muttering under his breath something about the _delicate and weak disposition of the English._

He exposed her feet to the open air and pressed fingers into her heels. "There," he murmured, his voice suddenly dropping.

"Feet are cold," she grumbled, glad he couldn't see her smile. She supposed it might have been apparent in her tone.

"It's about fifty degrees in here."

"That's just your abnormally warm body."

Humming something indistinct, he trailed the tips of his fingers up her right leg to the back of her knee. Sensitive, Clara flinched slightly as if the contact was unexpected. Shifting so he could place his hand over her lower back, she started again at his touch, trying to relax and pull herself together.

"Quite the flesh wound," John said quietly, running fingers over the obvious mark. The thin white and slightly jagged line stretched from the middle of her spine to her right hip.

"What happened?"

"Motorbike."

Clara heard him sigh in a way that indicated that he wasn't really surprised by the reason.

"It's a stupid story. I'm embarrassed about it. I was in attendance of this event where a demon tricked my Dad into giving it a ring to signify eternal love and commitment."

John snickered and retraced the line up her back. Exhaling, Clara buried her forehead a little further into the pillows. "I had a stupid boyfriend and we did a very stupid and irresponsible thing and now I have a stupid scar. I can tell you tomorrow, if you want. I would now, but it's my least favourite story about me."

"Stupid stories are my favourite genre."

"Cover story, obviously," she muttered. "Really, I got it from that time I rescued twenty men from the fascist base camp by fighting off fifty fascists single handedly. But that's still restricted information. Don't tell anyone."

"Never," he assured seriously.

"I'm a bit self conscious about it, actually," she swallowed, mouth apparently happy to continue its running honesty. "In front of you. I shouldn't be. But I am."

"You shouldn't be."

"Well, I am."

"Well, don't be."

"Well, I can't help it."

"Well, shut up," he laughed, brushing fingers gently through her hair for a moment. "You're so stupid."

"Stop insulting me."

"Stop thinking stupid things, then."

The moment he touched her properly, dug his fingers into her, Clara knew this was about to become a difficult moment in her current situation of being trapped on an island and lying half naked and half drunk on his bed. She bit down hard on the pillow to stop herself from groaning in pleasure. If he really did want a certificate for this, she would have been more than happy to write him one out, and with whatever authority she might have had to validate the accolade, sign her name under whatever he wanted.

She decided absently that his hands were undoubtedly her favourite part of him—certainly an opinion of sudden bias, changeable at any moment, but as he caressed and worked soothing, curative warmth into her muscles, nothing else seemed to stand a chance.

He ran his knuckles slowly down her spine from the top of her neck to her lower back. "You only have twenty eight bones in your spine," he murmured slowly. "As… a doctor, I can confirm this is what's made you five foot two."

"Didn't I mention something about those puns," she muttered vacantly, preoccupied by his attentions.

Yes," he said in quiet reply. "You said they would land you back in jail on assault charges. But, I don't think you're really in a position to start dishing out any punches."

His fingers slid to her shoulders. She was starting to feel like her body had been designed solely for his hands. Her response was difficult to repress, the intimacy of the action in the forefront of her mind. She struggled to keep her breathing at a normal rate.

"What's worse," John started casually, like he was oblivious to how he was making her feel. "A height joke or a doctor joke?"

"Both equally as bad," she mumbled, distracted.

"I just combined the two, as well."

"The doctor jokes aren't even jokes," she corrected absently. "They're just terrible puns."

"A pun is a joke."

"No."

"Yes."

"No," she repeated, returning a little more to her senses as he argued back.

 _"Yes."_

"Stop it. You don't even know what a pun is."

"Yes I do."

"Then why can't you do a Knock Knock joke correctly?" Her query was met with a short beat of silence before the inevitable response.

"Knock knock."

She didn't reply. That was her own fault for bringing it up.

"Clara. Knock knock."

Ignoring him, she remained quiet and turned her head away. His persistence was almost endearing.

"Clara," he whispered, mouth next to her ear, hands pausing their attentions and pressing over her arms.

"Don't," she groaned into the pillow.

"Knock knock." Relentless, with a large dosage of annoying, he repeated his whispered words. "Knock _knock."_

"Fuck off."

"Answer the door."

"No."

"Clara," he complained, pestering. He moved a hand to her shoulder and then tapped twice with his knuckles.

"Stay outside."

"But it's cold. _And,_ it's raining." His fingers pattered over her skin. "And my jumper has holes. Please answer the door. Please."

The switch into this playful, jovial mood was still fascinating her. He had probably displayed the entire spectrum of emotional response in about an hour.

" _Please,"_ he stressed again.

"This sounds a lot like begging to me," Clara smirked, twisting her head slightly so he could see her grin.

"No!" he exclaimed immediately, growling in retreat. "It wasn't. I don't care. I didn't want to come in, anyway. Better outside. Away from the communists."

She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself from laughing at his nonsense. "I don't remember reading in the terms and conditions that you'd be talking the entire way through this."

Chuckling, he pressed down hard on her lower back and slid up her spine. "Is it distracting?"

"Yes."

It wasn't. Barely. Her skin was on fire. The only distracting thing about this entire exercise was his hands. His incessant talking wasn't exactly the problem.

"I'll shut up." His silence lasted all of five seconds. "You know how all human beings have skin?"

"Mmm."

"You have the best skin out of all of them."

She paused to process the appreciative but peculiar worded attempt at flattery. "Probably… the weirdest way to deliver a compliment I've ever heard."

"It was more of a factual statement."

"Gathered all the evidence for that, have you?" She heard him give a dangerous growl and she bit back a laugh. "That was… so inappropriate. Based on our last hour. Sorry."

"Mmm. You really know how to push the fucking line," he muttered, massaging into her neck.

"I have an award for unnecessarily ruining good relationships," she told him carefully.

"Good. I would have had you nominated if you didn't. Want to know what I have an award for?"

"Being overly annoying?" she replied, trying to focus as his hands skated down her back and pressed into her hips.

"No."

"What then?"

His fingers trailed upwards, making her flinch, and then edged very carefully over the sides of her breasts to her arms. "Self control."

She swallowed, noting the definite drop in his voice and positioning of his hands.

"This was your idea," she said slowly, her teeth gritting slightly as his fingers dug again into her shoulders.

Pausing, his head lowered and his mouth pressed hard against the back of her ear to whisper. "Because I am very, _very_ weak."

"Take your hands off me then," she swallowed, throat dry as his lips pressed into her jaw.

"I can't," he whispered, brushing warmth over her cheek.

The shallow and grating words made further heat flood through her already stimulated body. She wasn't capable of doing this platonically. It was an impossible feat, destined to fail. A deteriorating resistance of a pointless, almost laughable task. Either it was mutual delusion or he had always wanted her in this position, because _surely_ he knew. Surely he must have known exactly how she would react, what sort of state he was putting her in.

Her body was completely overriding whatever her mind was telling her. Everyone had made stupid decisions when they were inebriated, yet in her, there was always an inkling somewhere in the back of her head— _don't don't don't—_

If she was looking for it now, then she couldn't find it. She didn't care. Nothing mattered.

She knew what desire looked like. There was no colour in his eyes, the swirling mess of blues and greens wiped out completely by dilated pupils. A heated, burning gaze. Mouth parted, slack jawed and short of breath. She barely remembered turning over, instead just found herself gazing up at him.

"I'm all yours," she muttered and closed her eyes in defeat. "Always was."

She didn't think he needed her confirmation in words, his motive only to do as he wished if he wasn't stopped, which she was never going to do, had never _wanted_ to do.

His arms flexed on either side of her as he lowered his head, nudging her chin up so her neck was exposed. He kissed her throat. Twice. Once, as if it were an accident—fleeting and chaste, like testing fingers in water for temperature. And then again, the second with purpose, lingering and harder, weighted with intent.

His teeth scraped over her pulse as he moved slowly down her neck, across her collarbone and into the curve of her shoulder. His mouth followed his fingers like a shadow. A trailing touch… and then taste as he drifted with careful and laborious attention. She trembled for moments beneath him, reflexively as her muscles tightened and fluttered while he explored. The reflex made him laugh. Not with humour or power, but simple curiosity, as if fascinated his hands could elicit the reaction, that his mouth could cause such an instinctive response to his own body.

Fingertips trailed intricately over her breasts, and when his mouth chased their sinuous paths she found herself arching beneath him, wanting his weight to press down but only finding air as he knelt above her. His tongue circled in meticulous caress and she placed her forearm over her mouth and bit down into her flesh to dampen and impede the audible, impulsive reaction to pleasure. Fingers kneaded in the soft spaces along the line of her ribs before travelling to her waist, melding heat and sparking the pooling and overwrought desire scouring through her body.

Lower, to her stomach, his tongue ran wet lines of searing heat until she could barely stand the prolonged anticipation. She only wanted one thing. The hand she threaded through his curls tugged to indicate her distress, and he sent her a low and dangerous growl in response. She backed off and let him do as he wished, pressing unrelenting kisses across her waist and sliding fingers hard down her sides.

Without hesitation or concern, his fingers hooked into and discarded of the remaining one percent of clothing and pushed her legs apart. He groaned ever so slightly, an unconscious sound at the back of his throat before he crushed his mouth into the inside of her thigh. His kiss trailed across her skin in a moment of merciless teasing, and then, to her final relief, he showed her just exactly _what_ he could do with his tongue.

He was as good at this as he was at everything else—not that she would ever have doubted, or even entertained the idea that he wouldn't be; in fact once again she found herself realising any sort of concept her head had created was rendered entirely void and obsolete in the face of reality.

As his tongue ran and circled in devastating motions of heat and caress, the dominating, controlling nature of his person asserted itself entirely, and somewhere through the bliss, she could tell that this was what he really liked, that the complete and autocratic command over her enabled his own pleasure from the act; the control he lacked elsewhere in his life was made up for here while she was exposed and vulnerable.

If this was his vice, then that seemed fitting and apt, and if this really _was_ his vice, then he was right—she was completely out of her depth. It was foreign territory she had no idea how to approach. Not just because of an utter lack of experience, but because she couldn't read him properly, only with momentary access from hints and flashes, insights that might only confuse her more. She was entirely dependant on his own willingness to divulge the contents of his head.

Intentional or not, he completely removed her grasp on her external surroundings and forced an abandon of any of her own authority. Yet in doing so, there was nothing of exploit or manipulation, she felt enclosed in him, an intimacy greater than she could never have comprehended—safe and protected while she collapsed under the weight of his concentrated barrage of power. In his house, in his room, on his bed, there was nothing she could do other than surrender, trapped in a losing battle of her own making, of her own encouragement.

She pressed back, pleasure flooding in hot and then burning waves until the intensity shut out her automatic analysis of his position. She lifted her head but then fell again to the pillows, unable to remain in complete support of herself. Her hands clawed in a helpless attempt at nothing and then clenched into the sheets. Her world narrowed solely to his mouth and his hands, and then accepting defeat, she succumbed entirely to his admissions and let her body take over, relinquishing the struggle to find or maintain any form of her own illusive influence.

For a short moment, one of her hands clasped around his wrist and she felt him twist his fingers to gently caress the back of her hers, a tiny breath of assurance before he returned to grasp her hips and control her movement, keeping her still enough while her heels pushed into the mattress and she thrashed helplessly beneath him. His fingers pressed inside her, curling and finding what made her respond with further force.

He controlled her climax, not to taunt, but to draw out the moment of her already enhanced state. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense and flutter, every nerve screaming at the capacity of pleasure—

Until he pushed too far, and she broke in a defenceless and devastating rush through the ascent into ecstasy. Her head threw back as she convulsed and released, teeth grinding together to suppress sound, barely achieving and then not achieving, while her body was exposed to fire without protection and her nerves burnt outside the range of what she knew was possible. Her mind wiped blank and then filled with the numbing stretch of infinite direction.

Slowly, as the expansive waves calmed, she stilled and began returning, bathing in the remnants of perfectly temperate water. She turned her head into the pillow and pressed a hand over her eyes, waiting for her focus to restore so she could move and possibly regain some sort of proper motor function.

Fingers traced smooth lines on her legs and a lingering kiss was pressed into her inner thigh. Her focus became singular again and she sat up, wanting to be close, to embrace and breathe against him while the residue of his attention flowed through her shattered nerves.

His eyelids were heavy, fluttering over a tenebrous gaze and his jaw was clenched hard. Between them as he propped himself up to sit, his hand dragged vacantly across his waist, mouth parting and then clenching again and he swallowed and breathed out in clear restraint.

"John," she murmured, placing her fingers into his stomach. His muscles tensed and he curled over slightly before circling her wrists and dragging her fingers from his body as her touch slid lower toward his waistband and obvious arousal.

"No."

"John," she repeated, confused at the resistance and trying to reach him again.

Warm and black with undoubtable lust, his emphatic eyes met her own, vehement and resolute against what she was suggesting. "No, Clara," he asserted quietly, holding her gaze. "I don't want to."

She didn't argue. There was nothing to argue against. It didn't quite feel like rejection and so she just nodded and blinked, staring back at his dark and searching look, desperately wishing she could comprehend what was going on inside his head.

Unsure what to do, she leant forward instead, slowly so he was aware of her intentions, and placed a soft kiss into his cheek. "Just because I like you," she murmured in his ear, pressing her forehead against his temple so she could breathe him in.

When she drew back, his eyes were half closed and a tiny smile pressed on the edges of his mouth. He slid off the side of the bed and pulled the sheets back. "Get in."

John pointed until she obeyed his quiet but insistent demand. Succumbing to the pull of horizontal indulgence, the sheets and duvet covered her in a heavy enclosure. Clara caught his arm as he started to move away and felt him tense a fraction before accepting her hold and relaxing.

"Back in a moment," he murmured, breaking away and leaving the room.

Her muscles were weak and heavy, her mind hazy with alcohol and pleasure. She wasn't sure what was supposed to happen now. She needed someone to tell her what to do. Her wishes were granted as the bed dipped suddenly and John sat back down beside her.

"Drink this," he instructed quietly, offering her a glass of water. "I'm assuming you'll have a three hundred quid headache to look forward to when you wake up."

When she was done, he placed the glass on the bedside table and switched off the lamp, casting the room into a darkness that filled her with unexpected and gentle relief.

"Are you going to stay?" she asked faintly as her eyes closed with the removal of light.

"No. I'm not tired."

"But it's one o'clock. Probably." Her protest extended in another weak murmur. She reached for him again, hand pressing into his chest.

"Please don't," he whispered, lowering her arm. "I'm rather helpless in your hands."

Fingers brushed lightly through her hair in farewell. His footsteps resonated in her head and the door closed between them with a soft click.


	10. The Complexities Of A Second Marriage

**Chapter 10: The Complexities Of A Second Marriage**

* * *

A headache pressed on her temples. The kind of headache that could make the recipient irritated and overly cross within a matter of seconds if exposed to the appropriate stimulus from an external source. A hot shower had done little to eliminate the spikes infringing on her skull, and when entering the living room, she squinted slightly at the burgeoning daylight caressing over sensitive eyes. A mild hangover—considering what it could have been—or at least in relation to what she had experienced after past alcohol-involved events. Thankfully, she didn't feel sick.

Clara's immediate intentions upon her emergence into the room were somewhat thwarted as she stared down at the long body sprawled casually along the couch. Any concern that the next moments were going to be awkward between them dispersed as she observed what was happening.

"Hello," Clara said cautiously, narrowing her eyes.

John reached out an absent hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of her knee as she arrived beside him. "Clara," he murmured, grinning and refusing to look at her, "this is literally the best thing I have ever used. I'm not joking in anyway. It's like an actual book. But better. Look, I can change the font size."

"Yeah," she replied slowly without expression. "I know. I told you they were good."

"Never said they weren't. I've always loved them."

She put a hand over her mouth to stop any laughter that might be thinking of making an escape, or at least attempting to hide the grin trying to form on her mouth. While he wasn't looking at her, she gazed down at the scene he created, scanning her eyes across his early morning form. He had forgone trousers or jeans, attired only in pants, a long sleeved t-shirt and his customary mismatched socks. A blanket was bunched at his feet. All evidence of their game had been removed, the space next to the fire clear of glasses and alcohol. She cleared her throat and resumed her original task.

"This is for you," she announced, holding out two fifty pounds notes in front of his face.

"Huh?" he mumbled, glancing at her offering before returning to the screen. "Money…"

"Yes. Money."

"Why are you giving me money at ten in the morning?"

"Thought you might be more susceptible."

His arm slid around both legs, trapping her against the edge of the couch. "Seven o'clock is prime time," he murmured, tipping his head to rest against her knee. "You're a little late."

Clara ignored his pointless reply. "I have no idea what you've spent on everything. But this is the only cash I have on me at the moment. So, here."

"Spent on what?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Anything. Everything. Food. Petrol. Electricity."

"Oh, right," he responded, realising what was happening and then becoming completely disinterested in the matter. "I've already done all that."

"Yeah, I know. That's why you need to take this."

He wasn't really listening. Languid and indifferent, the only indication he gave to show he knew she was there was the fingers drawing tiny lines on the back of her knee.

"John."

He looked up at her, blinking and focusing his attention at her persistence. "What?"

"Money."

His gaze fixed on the notes, staring, and then he shook his head. "Clara, I don't need it. Or want it. So just… forget it." He nodded vaguely toward the guitar on the opposite couch. "If you haven't yet noticed, I've acquired extensive wealth playing that."

"John."

"Clara."

He was entirely oblivious to what she was trying to express. Beginning a conversation into why this was the only thing she could think of in her afflicted state that would create an immediate illusion of some sort of boundary, a very much superficial and rather shallow offering to establish a small form of control—wasn't really something she wanted at this time of the day.

"Sex," she said blankly. "I'm paying you for sex."

That got his attention. His eyebrows raised and his mouth parted.

"Thanks for all the sex," she continued slowly, keeping her expression neutral.

"I'm actually two hundred pounds an hour." His reply was careful, but a grin started to press desperately on the corners of his mouth.

"No, this is all inclusive. For the other… four and a half times, too."

"Right," he declared firmly, sitting up properly. "First of all—I don't do sex in halves. Let's round it up to six. Second—in what world would I charge only sixteen pounds per time? Twenty at least. I'm worth at least twenty. So, you actually owe me _more_ money."

"Well, I don't think you've been good enough to warrant anything over ten pounds, so maybe you should lower your rates," she responded. "I was being generous. Alternatively, just get better at your job."

"Get _better_ at my job?" he repeated, smiling with a dangerous edge and looking back at the Kindle. "Why don't you use that to buy a book on how to tell a convincing lie. Needs work."

"Here," she offered again, serious.

"Don't want your money, Clara."

"John, it's—" Sighing, she felt herself starting to get irritated. "Take it."

"I don't need it. I'll survive on my mediocre prostituting."

"I'm not…" She pressed fingers into her eyes and tried to clear the lingering discontent of not quite having enough sleep. "I'm not comfortable with you paying for everything."

"Why?" he shrugged, uninterested. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Yeah, but it matters to me. So just… just take it. Please."

"Are you getting all grumpy," he smirked, tightening the grip around her legs and pressing her forward slightly.

"Yes," she frowned, annoyed. "John, it's really important that you take it. All right? I don't care if you don't need it. It's more for me than you."

"Fine, fine. Okay." He took it from her hands and immediately dropped on the floor with a careless, bordering on derisive smile.

She sighed again. Good enough.

Water. She needed water. She detached her legs from his arm and headed toward the kitchen.

"Are you coming back?"

"Yeah," she promised, smiling at the instant and needy concern in his tone.

A glass was already placed in waiting on the bench beside a box of painkillers, and beneath was a small piece of paper exhibiting a rough sketch of a very large bird, who was clutching in its talons, a very small person. Clara exhaled laughter and looked over towards her artist, feeling her chest tighten at the attentive and caring gesture. She filled the glass and forced herself to drink the entire thing.

On the couch, John was grinning at his phone, both thumbs on the screen typing. She watched him openly, feeling lost and unclear about what to do. Other than the want to submerge her head into a bucket of ice, she didn't have any suggestions on how to really broach the conversation they needed to have.

"Hello," he murmured, distracted again as she returned. He resumed the arm around her legs and pulled her closer, his attention remaining on the screen, yet continuing to stroke the back of her knee with absent fingers.

She wanted to sit down, waiting for him to offer or move, but didn't quite want to interrupt the position of his arm.

"Who are you talking to?" Clara asked when another wide smile expanded on his mouth and he began typing again.

"Actually… sorry," she added immediately, frowning at her intrusiveness. "Pretend I didn't say that. Sorry."

"Jack," he replied simply, either uncaring or oblivious to the possibly inappropriate query.

"What—my Jack?"

"Your Jack," he confirmed with a grin. "Although he's my Jack now. We're friends."

Clara narrowed her eyes, wary at this revelation. "Ah… really?"

He hummed absent confirmation and smiled again at whatever he was typing.

"What are you… talking about?" she asked casually, innocently.

"You."

Her brow creased and she gazed at him with suspicion. "What about me?"

"We've been discussing the best way to tell you about my new role on the radio show."

"What!" she exclaimed, automatically making a swipe for the phone. He shifted it out of her reach with a burst of laughter.

"I'm the boss. No one is making decisions without me. Fucksake. Especially not fucking Jack."

"So controlling," he smirked, clearly in a mood to goad her.

"That's because it's literally my show!"

"Well, Jack seems to be under the impression it's _his_ show."

"Jack can get fucked."

"He's also been telling me some very interesting stories."

"What?" she growled, eyes narrowing with concern. "What… stories?"

John grinned and shrugged. "Just some enlightening content he thought I might like to know. Few… incriminating pictures. I really love what you're doing to the statue in this picture here." He flipped the screen around and held it out. He tutted and shook his head as she focused her gaze. "So inappropriate."

Clara groaned and swore in dismay. "Stop texting him."

"He's my friend now," he announced with another grin, overly pleased with himself. "I'm the best friend he's ever had."

Scowling, she scanned the room for her own phone so she could send a hostile reprimand to her meddling former-friend, but didn't have a clue where she'd left it.

"Let me reply," she demanded, holding out her hand.

He shook his head with another smug look.

"John."

Shrugging, he fixed her with a taunting smile. "Make me."

Attempting another unsuccessful swipe, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards her. He responded instantly, using the arm around her legs to tilt her off balance and force her knees into the couch. Clearly much stronger than her, his arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her down on top of him as she tried to reach the hand holding the device capable of containing potentially every incriminating picture Jack had ever taken of her, which, if she recalled correctly from the last time he had done this, was a lot.

"John!"

His response was only gleeful laughter, and while he crushed her into the back of the couch, she put her hand over his face and covered his eyes so he was forced to use his in order to remove the pressing fingers obscuring his vision. She took the opportunity and tore the phone out of his hand, victorious before curling over so he couldn't grab it back. She laughed as he tried to pull her over.

"I won, I won," she expressed as he grasped for her wrists. She flattened his phone beneath her, obstructing his intentions and shifting it out of his range. "Accept it."

"That was cheating!"

"I win." Clara grinned at him and his disgruntled expression and then turned back to compose an aggressive message. "Shit," she laughed as she realised the next obvious barricade. "You need to unlock it now."

He started chuckling, a triumphant and devilish grin plastering on his mouth.

"Please?" she asked, coy and softening her voice.

"I win," he smiled, showing all his teeth before dropping the malevolent expression and furrowing his brows. "Don't look at me like that."

"How?" she asked, innocent.

 _"That,"_ he frowned. "With your eyes doing that."

"Doing what?" Clara watched him succumb and then surrender to her morally questionable tactics.

"Fine," he acquiesced with a scowl, conceding and entering the pin.

"You're too easy," she smirked, snatching it from his hands.

"Be nice," he instructed, clearly annoyed she was well aware of what she was doing. "Jack's my best friend."

 ** _Hello dickhead… can you kindly FUCK OFF. c xxx_**

Nice enough. What she really wanted to do was scroll through this entire conversation, but knew that would be crossing every fucking line she could think of, so instead she placed his phone on the floor and slid it hard across the rug so it was out of range.

"There. I've done you a favour. You don't want to play Jack's games. Trust me."

She smiled at him and then observed the intimacy of their immediate position. She was stretched out half on top of him, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other over her shoulder.

"This is nice," he said quickly as he noted her sudden realisation.

Clara swallowed and nodded, and then just accepted it, supposing it wasn't really an accident. She didn't wanted to move, so she didn't. He tightened his embrace and she lowered her head into the cushion above his shoulder, burying her mouth and nose into the space behind his ear. His hair was damp from the shower and the scent of vanilla soap lingered on his skin. She reached up and brushed her fingers slowly through his dark curls, caressing him gently as she felt his chest move in steady motion beneath her.

"Did you sleep here?" she asked with quiet insistence.

The blanket bunched at their feet felt rather telling. He hummed and nodded almost indistinctly. "Sort of."

If possible, she pushed her head even closer into his, closing her eyes and pressing her mouth into his soft skin. "Should we talk about last night?"

"What part?"

"Well," she started, frowning. "All of it, I guess."

"Sounds boring."

She breathed out laughter as she registered the smile in his tone. "Mmm. Leave it? For a bit."

"Do you know what I think we should do today instead?"

"I'm not a fucking mind reader, John."

"You're so grumpy," he replied, laughter filling his voice.

"I'm not grumpy. I've just got a small headache."

 _"I'm not grumpy!"_ he repeated, pitching his voice in imitation of her. He started what could only be described as _giggling_ and grabbed her wrists in case she was thinking of any form of physical retaliation.

"Not what I sound like," she muttered under her breath. "Why aren't you feeling ill? You probably had more than me."

"You're smaller and I'm also physically superior to everyone on this planet."

"Oh, good. I was wondering when the arrogance would return."

"My arrogant free hours are between four and eight in the morning. You've missed them."

"That's inconvenient," she mumbled absently, finding herself becoming distracted by his body beneath her. Unsurprisingly, he was very warm. She could feel him flexing slightly, adjusting to her weight.

"I think," he said quietly, "we should just stay like this for the entire day."

One of the best ideas she had ever heard in her life. Clara hummed and shut her eyes again. "What about the outside bit? The eagles might be out."

"Don't care."

"You do care."

"Not enough to move. And it's still raining."

Against his own declaration, John turned, shifting her between himself and the couch, pressing his body into her and laying his head beside hers so he could look at her directly.

"Can't even wear my own clothes," he complained, clearly holding back a smile as he trailed a hand down her jumper covered arm.

"I'm wearing _one_ out of about the twenty you brought," she contended, unimpressed. "For a ten day trip."

"But this is my favourite one."

She shrugged, smiling back at him. His eyes ran over borrowed warmth and then he pressed into her further, eliminating any gap between them. His arm slid behind her back, securing them together.

This was how she had wanted to wake up this morning.

 _Every morning._

Warm against him and surrounded in his arms. What she wanted didn't really seem to be a possibility, however. She felt her chest tighten, the well acquainted crush of feeling both hurt and confusion. Right now, she was close enough to kiss him. The thought made her blink and swallow, mouth turning dry with nervous apprehension. The last time she had done that was on a balcony in London.

"That's yours," he murmured, interrupting her swerving thoughts.

"Huh?" She blinked quickly, forcing the return of the present.

"Your phone buzzed."

"Oh. Right. Where?"

He hummed absentmindedly and kept staring at her. "It's under the couch. Don't be angry. But I accidently stood on it a little bit. It's fine. I think. You should check."

"Want to get it?" she asked softly, finding his guilty expression rather endearing. "I'm trapped."

"Yeah."

He didn't move, just continued his dark and interminable stare. The edges of his mouth were curved in a vacant smile. The colour had returned to his eyes. She tracked their transformative hues and wondered if they really were shifting amongst the grey or it was just an illusion. The crush on her chest began melting away into liquid, dispersing like it had never been there in the first place. She could quite easily kiss him. The distance was tiny. A few inches of movement and his mouth could be on hers. She remembered what he tasted like, a visceral recollection that sent anticipation and heat down her spine. His tongue against hers. How warm his breath was before he parted from her lips to inhale.

Another buzz from somewhere on the floor broke the transfixion.

"Got it," he murmured, twisting and dropping his head over the edge.

Clara started laughing as the blurry text came into focus and she pressed her mouth into her shoulder to stop it. "Shit," she chuckled, half groaning, half amused.

"What?"

"This." She passed her phone into his hand. "It's for you, too."

The message from Amy included a picture of Margaret Thatcher sprawled leisurely on the floor and licking a paw.

 ** _Which one of you will be paying my neighbour's £165.58 vet bill to fix their cat?_**

Before John had time to react, Clara heard the small swoop of another message arriving. He began laughing properly, a deep amusement that was both concerning and rather lovely.

"What?" she frowned, quickly trying to take the phone from his hands as she realised leaving him with unfettered access to Amy was probably a mistake. "John."

He held it out of her reach above their heads. "You can have it back if you promise I can reply to this message."

"No!" she growled. "Give it."

He passed it over with a grin and then ducked his head so he wasn't looking at her.

 ** _Seen anything outside of his bedroom yet?_**

Groaning, Clara tossed her phone away with resentment to join his, away from the couch and their hands, wondering how embarrassed she was supposed to be. "Can I have one of your best friends? I don't like mine anymore."

He looked up, horrified at the idea. "Clara. Ed, Hamish… they would… turn you against me. All three of you would just end up laughing at me and being mean."

"Aw," she grinned with false sympathy. "Is that what they do?"

"Yes," he scowled, not really responding to her slight condescension with much enthusiasm. "They think everything about me is funny."

"You are pretty funny."

"There's a big difference between laughing with me and laughing _at_ me." His expression shifted and he narrowed his eyes. "They laugh when I tell them science things."

His childish, rueful disgruntlement was so innocent and so far reaching into the realms of pure and unfiltered exasperation that she struggled to not simply grab him and whisper meaningless assurances in his ear. Clara had no real idea what his friends were like, but she felt a fond moment of connectivity with the two men who had also been chosen and subjected to screeds of arcane information as she was.

"You should meet them. If you wanted to, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he swallowed. "They want to meet you. A lot." He frowned, wary. "Probably too much. A suspicious amount."

"Well," Clara smiled, "I made you meet my friends."

"Mmm. That went well."

"Which time?"

He chuckled and then clamped his mouth shut to control it. "Both," he deadpanned. "Just so… fun."

"They're all obsessed with you, too," she sighed. "Probably. Maybe not Rory. But the rest of them…" She narrowed her eyes. "The rest of them are definitely fucking obsessed."

"How? Ianto just likes my music."

Clara took a deep breath and stretched her arm over him, groaning slightly. "This is just what Amy and Jack are like. They're playing with you. First they ask all those intrusive questions—like at the bar? It's to make you think their mode of enquiry is only completely blatant and upfront. Next"—She pointed to his phone—"they team up and start doing that. Make you like one of them."

She started helplessly grinning and rubbed her eyes. "Oh my god. They're so manipulative. The other—in this scenario, it's Amy—she'll remain indifferent. Jack will bring her into the conversation but she'll be offhand and impatient. Most people want Amy to like them. And she… Oh my god. She's so shameless about how she'll go about turning it around.

"Anyway. The two of them will find the mutual friends they have with you and suddenly it's all, 'no, Clara, I can't get a drink with you, I'm busy with insert-name-here for the next month'.

"Jack's going to be all over Donna. It's just a big game to them. They'll get themselves invited to something you'll be at. Dinner… A party… Some event. Feign total ignorance that they knew you would be there. Then… they turn the dial up to ten. It's like watching a really amazing magic trick. They're honestly unstoppable when they work together." Clara sighed. "Before you realise, you will have revealed not just everything they want to know about you, but have cut keys for your house and handed over credit details."

"Even me?"

"Even you. No one is immune. They're professionals. Professional manipulators. And they'll probably be worse with you because they know you're a challenge."

"Is Jack only pretending to like me then?" His expression shifted and he looked a little disheartened.

"No," she grinned, quickly shaking her head. "Ironically, Jack and Amy are the most honest people I've ever met. Seriously. If they didn't like you, you would definitely know. They only do this to people they like." She pointed at his phone and gave him another smile for reassurance. "That's absolutely all real."

"Oh. Okay." His expression brightened. "That's good. I really like Jack. Do you think we could—"

"No," she interrupted. "Don't bother."

"You didn't know what I was going to say."

"I did. You're imagining a scenario where we have the prowess to manipulate them back."

"Yes."

"We can't. It doesn't even matter I just told you. They'll adapt. They probably already know I would tell you that."

"Well… I've already been yelled at and received a punch in the face. I don't see how it could get much worse."

"Mmm. Sure they'll think of something." Clara pressed light fingertips into his jaw, tracing over the now absent marks left from Jack's offence. "This is gone," she murmured.

"Jack should be thanking me I didn't hit back," he remarked, smiling. "Imagine his wedding photos."

Clara grinned, holding back further amusement. "I had that same conversation with Ianto."

"Would have been really cramped fitting all those guests into a hospital ward." His own grin expanded. "Do you think you and I should get married?"

Every single thing about the unexpected question should have been either completely inappropriate or perhaps undeniably awkward, but instead laughter became inescapable and she matched his mirthful and humoured expression. "Is that a proposal?" she questioned, raising her brows.

"Yeah," he smiled, fixing her with his laughing eyes.

"Does it matter we've only known each other for four weeks?"

"Thirty two days, actually."

"Are you counting?"

"No," he grinned, shaking his head. "Yes. But not on purpose. I have numbers for things that won't go away. I can't help but count."

"Imagine if I said yes."

He closed his eyes and turned his head to silently and helplessly laugh into the cushion, before struggling to maintain a straight face. "I'm very traditional. We've slept together, so I have to do the honourable thing."

"I'm not exactly pregnant," she pointed out with a dry smile.

Uncontainable amusement spilled from his mouth and he put his forehead into hers, pressing hard to force her back. "You'll have five children by the time I'm done with you," he growled with severe assertion.

"Fuck off," she breathed in disgust.

"We will," he insisted. "We'll have one, and then make backups."

"No one has five children. We can make… one. Two if that one is an annoying science nerd."

"Well that's fucking offensive!"

"Sorry—no, I can't hear your protests over all the rock and tree facts you and the smaller version of you are trying to tell me."

"Too bad, Oswald. That's just your inevitable future. Imagine me and _five_ little annoying science nerds competing for your attention."

"Yeah? Well good luck supporting your five nerds on ten quid rates in this economic climate."

Another torrent of contagious laughter burst from his mouth.

"Probably a local church we could stop by tomorrow," she continued casually. "Or later today? My headache will be gone by the afternoon. Actually, fucking hell. This conversation really needs to stop."

Grin wide with permanent amusement, he lifted and leant over to put his mouth on her ear. "You're _so_ inappropriate. I've only known you thirty two days."

"You started it!" she expressed, pushing him back amidst a final bout of laughter.

John shifted into his original position, arm draping across her waist and then sliding up to her shoulder. "Want to marry me anyway?" he smiled, eyes soft and glittering. "In the future?"

It was such an innocent, incidental question, without weight or intent, just a quietening of a safe and innocuous moment. Clara shared his smile, a flood of warmth rippling in her chest and expanding like a wave through her body.

"I think I might be a bit weird about marriage," she admitted, lifting her shoulder in a shug.

"How come?" he asked, blinking through his gentle and imploring gaze.

"I just… I'm not sure. Whenever I try and think about myself in that situation, I can't really picture it. Telling someone I'll love them forever."

She frowned a little, considering something that she hadn't thought about in a long time. "I always thought Dan might ask. It would have made sense. But… we, ah, we didn't live together. Which I knew was weird. Everyone thought it was weird. He asked me twice, seriously, to move in with him. You're not supposed to live separately after three years, right? Amy and Rory moved in together after about six months. So did the boys. But I made excuses. We were fine, but that was weird.

"It… panicked me. Doing that. So I think, maybe," she swallowed, "that might have been why he…" She trailed off, blinking away the rest of the sentence. "It's my best guess. I never wanted to commit to anything."

Clara bit into her bottom lip as she watched him watching her, quiet and observant with fixed attentiveness.

"But my issue with marriage," she continued, wanting to diffuse the somber mode she was sinking into, "is more likely to be a side effect of my everlasting resentment of having Linda in my life."

His small rush of laughter was countered by the weight of her deeper acknowledgment.

"I honestly will never understand why my dad married her," she muttered, stretching her arms out slightly and ducking her head to ease the slight tension between her shoulderblades.

"Love, surely," he suggested with amusement.

Clara scoffed and pulled a face. "Yeah, right. Seriously, John—you would understand if you met her."

He smiled. "I think you might have a small discriminatory problem."

"I've already told NASA they can have her for the first non-returnable Mars mission," Clara continued, ignoring him. "That, or just use her for degraded oxygen experiments."

"Clara!"

"I'm kidding," she grinned. "I'm really, truly, almost kidding."

He started chuckling, looking up to the ceiling. "She's probably just incredible in bed."

Clara's mouth dropped open. He turned his glittering eyes towards her and in a second she had pulled the cushion out from behind his head and was battering him it.

"John!"

"What?" he laughed, trying to fight off the assault.

"Don't say things like that!" she exclaimed in disgust, grabbing at his defending hands. "Jesus. Yuck."

"I'm simply offering a possible theory"—The cushion connected to his face—"into the complexities of a second marriage as posed by the denier of parental reconciliation!"

She hit him again and then he tore the soft weapon from her grasp to throw from the couch. Its trajectory veered into the window, falling to knock a lamp beneath. It tilted and came crashing onto the wooden floor with the definitive sound of _broken._ The sudden destruction startled them both into stilled silence.

"Definitely your fault," he grinned, an expression that showed off all his teeth.

"No. Another thing Linda's destroyed. Along with with my diminishing childhood and sense of joy." She drew her gaze away from the window. "What was your wedding like?"

"Um… nice." John smiled, laying back down on his side to face her, closer perhaps, his legs pressing against her own and hand clenching into the jumper over her shoulder. "It was lovely, really. In London. Just small. Which I thought was funny because River knows so many people. But we just had family and close friends. I remember there being lots of snappers out the front. And Eddie was so drunk." He laughed slightly. "I think he was drunk through the entire ceremony, too."

"What are snappers?"

"Snap snap," he smiled, blinking his eyes in time. "Photographers. That's what Louis calls them."

"Oh," she realised. "Well. We love a good celebrity wedding."

"I'm going to take down that photo of River and I up there," he said quietly, pointing a finger over his shoulder to the mantelpiece and then exhaling lightly. "But I'm, I'm going to keep it. Is that… Is that normal? Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"You can do whatever you want," she said gently, reassuring. "I think it's probably normal. You don't need to erase her from your life."

She stared into his kind and intelligent eyes and decided she wanted to tell him classified information. "Want to know the serious reason why I think I have a problem?"

"You can tell me anything," he murmured.

"I think… I think it's because of how Dad was when we were told about Mum's cancer. I was just about to turn fifteen. The three of us were in this room and the doctor said it could be anywhere between a month and… a guess. A year at the most, maybe. The woman who told us was behind a desk. Dad stood up, went right up to her and took this bit of paper she was reading from out of her hands. He balled it in his fist and then just walked out of the room.

"I couldn't really comprehend what was happening. He didn't come home for two days. I don't know where he went. Mum must have because she… I don't know. She wasn't surprised or…" Clara shook her head. "She just told me not to worry about him."

Swallowing, she cleared her throat a little. "They were so happy. I don't even remember them ever fighting or arguing. And that's what he got. For being in love and wanting to spend the rest of his life with her. She died six weeks later.

"I know it's… pretty irrational. It doesn't even make sense. Dad—he would never have traded it, even if there was a way of knowing in advance that would happen. Of course he wouldn't. And I know that letting it affect my own relationships is absurd.

"But Dan… he's been the only long term boyfriend I've had. Anyone else was just… months. Or weeks. We never talked about any of that though. I never really explained it. I don't think I wanted to and it must have created a gap between us. Space that felt unbreachable, perhaps. I don't know."

Sighing, she frowned and brushed her hand over one of his, staring down to his pale fingers. "How come…" she started quietly, blinking and looking up to watch his eyes. "How come I can tell you?"

It wasn't really a question and he didn't respond, even if he did know the answer.

"It's actually fourteen years on… Next week. Since Mum died. The eighteenth. Which is… Saturday, I think. I guess fourteen years is sort of quite a long time ago now," she contemplated. "But I'm still sad about it."

John closed one of his eyes for a moment as if considering her admission with curiosity.

"Everyone is dead," she sighed drastically.

The laughter he exhaled was laced with proper and sincere amusement. "Sorry, sorry," he murmured immediately in apology, yet couldn't rid himself of the humour in his tone. "I'm not laughing. Well, only a tiny bit. That was just a little melodramatic."

"I've barely seen anyone else in five days," she grinned back, casting her eyes over his shoulder toward the window.

"I'm very alive. You can't feel this warm if you're dead." His fingers pressed into her cheek for confirmation.

"I'm going to start regulating your sugar intake."

"No!"

"It's very controlling of me. But I'll do it in a way you won't even notice. Someone should have told you years ago."

"They did. I'm a bad listener." He smiled and tucked strands of stray hair behind her ear. "Tell me about your mum."

"Ah… well, she…" Clara gave him a wry smile. "I think she would have really liked you."

"Already sounds like an excellent person," he declared formally, raising his eyebrows and nodding in want of agreement.

"Yeah," she smirked, pushing her hand harder into his shoulder. "Despite the arrest and the radio."

"I did consider… your dad might have come round to punch me at some point by now."

Clara turned her mouth into the couch to stifle her laughter at the thought. "He's a very passive sort of bloke. Mum was too. I remember her being very calm. Like… tranquil, sort of. Didn't get angry or concerned about little things.

"All traits I really didn't inherit," she added with a grin. "But we liked all the same things. Books and films. I suppose I might just like them because she did, but that's okay. Austen. Dickens. She used to read to me a lot, even when I was older. Or tell me stories. Everything could be a story."

On the rug, a phone buzzed an interruption.

"Who do you think?" Clara asked. "Jack sending you a video of me dancing on a table, or Amy sending me a picture of a mangled cat?"

"I very much hope it's the former."

"Once," she started, closing her eyes, "Jack accidently sent my dad this overly… _bad_ photo of me and Amy dressed in police outfits that wouldn't meet current police uniform regulations."

John's warm laughter filtered into her ears.

"Yeah," she expressed with old annoyance, a fixed and unimpressed smile on her mouth. "Dave and Danny were a little close together in his contacts."

She opened her eyes and took a deep breath, smiling again at his open amusement. "You know, if I could have talked to anyone about what happened, it should have been Dad. He's been through the same thing."

"Did you try?"

Clara shook her head. "No. But he did. After the funeral. But I, ah…" She frowned, rubbing fingers into her eyes. "I wasn't interested. I'm still not." She looked across to him, blinking as the edges of her mouth curved. "Turns out I'd rather talk to some random celebrity I met in jail."

"I'm not a celebrity," he grumbled in complaint, suddenly pushing his head into her neck to speak against her skin. "I'm a musician. And technically, we met in a fight."

The further proximity made her heart beat a little faster. His breath brushed in light caress.

"We have the best 'how did you meet' story."

"Who can we tell though?" he murmured, voice muffled. "Everyone knows."

Clara grinned into his hair. "If someone does ask, we don't even have to explain, either. We can just give them our newspaper cover."

She felt him laugh and she slid her arm over his back, absently drawing lines through his thin t-shirt. "My parents have a good meeting story. Mum…" Clara stopped and blinked in realisation. "Actually, the parallels here are weird. But Mum saved Dad from being hit by a car. She pulled him off the road."

John drew back so he could look at her. "Can I say an inappropriate joke?"

"Mmm… All right."

"Another trait you didn't inherit."

Clara closed her eyes and knocked her forehead repetitively against his shoulder. _"John,"_ she protested, almost amazed at his daring.

"Too far?"

"Yes, obviously that's too far." Sighing, she wondered whether to laugh or simply ignore him for the next three hours. "That's so far over the line."

"Quite good though, right?" John smiled as she found herself becoming helpless against the audacious nature of his responding attitude.

"No. Well, yeah. Not bad. Actually—yes." She pressed down the traitorous grin curving her lips. "Fine. It was good."

"Thank you. Some of my edgy material." He tilted his head slightly. "Your mum died very close to Christmas."

"Yeah. Here's my obligatory 'I hate Christmas now' proclamation. I hate Christmas."

"Do you?"

"Nah," she replied, letting herself smile. "Christmas is all right."

"What are you doing?" he queried. "Blackpool?"

She shook her head. "No, ah… _Linda_ is taking Dad to France for a surprise trip. He already knows. Pretty sure that bitch did it so she didn't have to deal with me and my temperamental grieving."

John's eyebrows raised at the abrasive wording and accusation.

"That's a little harsh, isn't it," she frowned, reconsidering the description. "I hate her as a joke, but I also really don't like her in… reality."

"Other than marrying your dad, what's she done?"

"She just… you know."

"What?"

"Look, she's just a bitch."

A grin flashed on his mouth and she could see him struggling to contain the resulting smirk. "It's completely unfounded, isn't it."

"No! It's not." Clara frowned at him. "You're supposed to be on _my_ side."

"All right, grumpy. I've got your back. Always."

"Anyway," she continued, smiling at his continual bravery. "It means I'm not doing anything. Which I'm sort of glad about. I was—" She swallowed, pausing. "Was supposed to go to Bristol. With Dan. But, obviously… not.

"Amy… Amy and Rory want me to come with them to the Williams' event. But, um… I don't really feel like having to small talk my way through twenty people for three days. So. I'm going to buy Margaret Thatcher expensive cat biscuits. Maybe we'll have a productive chat about our life choices."

She smiled at him, watching his dark eyes scan over hers. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, ah…" He cleared his throat. "Missy and Chloe are coming to stay. I usually go to them but I have my own house this year. And Donna and Louis are coming for lunch. We always do that if I'm in London. That's it."

"I sort of, um… worry about you."

John blinked, startled by her sudden and straightforward admission. Clara stared at him, trapped in his eyes as silence stretched in the small space between them. She could feel his breath, a little short perhaps, apprehensive and unsure, caught unawares by her words.

"Is that weird?" she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "I've only known you a month." She touched his jaw and slid absently to his chin, fingers like feathers. He'd shaved at some point within the last few hours, a meticulous and perfect job. His skin felt like silk.

"I think you're very lonely and it makes me worried."

The glittering pools of grey stared back at her, glazed with the effects of absent sleep.

"Are you?"

"Yes," he whispered, swallowing. "But I'm not… not right now. I have you here. Clara—"

"Do you think Margaret Thatcher is all right?"

She wanted him to talk, except she could feel herself starting to break, sudden fractures showing in the stoic walls and barriers. The floodgates to hold back what was probably quite literally a _flood_ of repression. She wasn't sure she was capable of dealing with its effects.

John followed her lead and tried to smile, failing while his dark eyes swarmed with unease as he was forced to continue. "Looked fine to me," he replied, swallowing. "Doubt the other cat got a claw in. That's who we should be worried about. Hundred and sixty five quid of damage. What's that? Couple of bites? Missing eyeball?"

His words meant nothing, he was just talking to make sound to fill the empty space.

"You should have her," she said slowly, blinking. "She might be happier. Danny used to play with her. He had a remote control car and he'd drive it around for her to chase. I tried to find it. After. Couldn't." Her breath didn't seem entirely stable as she inhaled. "She doesn't like me. I can't even touch her."

"She'll come round."

"When? She's known me for two years."

"Oh. Well. You never know. I'll talk to her. Put in a good word."

She stared at him, feeling the numb crush on her chest try and make its dutiful return.

"Clara." His voice was strained with apprehension. "Are you okay?"

"No," she swallowed. Her words felt thick and heavy. "I'm really not. I think I'm… emotionally exhausted."

"Am I… Am I making you feel like that?"

"Yes," she told him quietly, unable to give him anything but pure honesty.

The devastation on his face was so raw it made her want to feel sick. The headache she'd partially forgotten about became an angry, pulsating thud in her temples before she breathed through it.

"I'm a bit of a mess, John," she whispered, watching his dismay transform into anxiety. "I've got some serious fucking problems. And so do you. But you're overwhelming me.

"And last night," she continued, "that was bad. All of it was bad. We should be better than that. We… need to be better than that or this is just going to be a trainwreck."

Her vision was suddenly blurred. She blinked to clear it but found herself incapable of the task. "Shouldn't do that," she mumbled, pressing her fingers into wet eyes. "Medically dangerous.

"This isn't anything resembling some sort of ultimatum," she clarified, swallowing again to try and clear the lump in her throat. She didn't want to cry, but her eyes seemed to be making their own plans. "Please don't think that. I'm just being realistic. We're currently living in fantasyland."

"Clara, what—what can I do? I'll do anything. I'll do anything you wan—"

She pressed fingers into his lips to shut him up. "You can relax," she murmured, lowering her hand and taking a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "It's okay. We'll be fine. Right now I have a headache. Which probably makes everything very easy." She gave him a watery, weak smile and brushed at her eyes. "Want to stay here? Just for a bit."

Soft hands framed her face. His thumbs ran over her cheeks. The blanket collected at their feet was suddenly pulled up and over her shoulders. She pressed her head into his shoulder and put her arm around him, flattening her body into his. His hand wove through her hair and caressed the back of her neck.

"This is probably the most comfortable I've ever been," she confessed in murmur. "In my entire life."

John only nodded in response. "Would you like me to read something to you?" he offered after a few minutes, shy. "From my Kindle."

"Mine," she mumbled, a weak protest against a helpless smile.

"I've already changed all the settings to the ones I like though," he explained in whisper. "And then I also accidently bought a book, and then I bought three more books on purpose."

"What books?"

"I bought them for you," he said slowly. "Books… you'll like."

"What books?" she repeated, suspicious.

"There's one about… manta rays."

Her instant smile was well hidden in his shoulder. "What about the others?"

"Ah… well, they're all about manta rays, too."

"You bought four books on manta rays."

"Mmm… yes," he admitted carefully.

"Thank god I still have a job," she smiled, continuing her soft mumble. "I'm so glad I can support your obscure obsessions."

"I've done you a favour, really. It's important to know what's in the sea to discourage any desire to go in it."

John brushed through her hair and then moved to reach down to the floor. "Okay. Here starts part one in my series on why you shouldn't go in the water."

"How many parts are there?"

"Ah… I think there's around two hundred thousand known species living in there, but it could be over a million. Might take me a few days to cover them all. And I can do the ones we haven't discovered, too, because I've invented them all."

"You've invented eight hundred thousand species."

"Yes. Names and everything. In my head. There's a fish called Oculus-manibus that has ten eyes and little hands for grabbing plankton."

"Why does it have ten eyes?"

"So it can see ten things at once," he stated like it was obvious.

"John," she mumbled, burying her head further into his shoulder. "I've got a really good idea why your friends laugh at you."

"Why?"

His obliviousness seemed completely genuine and she bit down into her lip to stop her own laughter. "Nevermind," she smiled. "Carry on."

"Manta rays first. Because they're my favourite one. We'll work backwards."

* * *

 **A/N: Hello, it's me. Hi. Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has left a review so far.**

 **And, if anyone ever reads this who is embarking on a future trip to the Isle of Skye, say hi to that f****** rock I fell off last time I was there, and the giant angry seagull that rejected all my attempts at friendship.**


	11. Problems And Sub-Problems

**Chapter 11: Problems And Sub-Problems**

* * *

"Didn't _Raw-_ leigh invent the potato or something?"

Clara looked across to John, smiling helplessly at the teasing, irreverent grin he sent in her direction. If there was any subject she could claim to have more expertise in, it was this. She was consistently one up on him in the English history department.

"Another posterity error our nation has been afflicted by," she explained, pointing her fork at his potato-filled plate. "Raleigh had nothing to do with the introduction over here. We just gave him all the credit because apparently there was one moment in our little conquest when we really didn't like the Spanish."

Skeptical, John frowned. "What exactly was the point of all my former schooling if everything I know about him is wrong?"

"I suppose we prefer a fabricated story for self-importance over cold hard fact."

"Ah, the English," he sighed dramatically, resuming the slow decimation of his meal. "Liars, thieves, fools. All of them. Can't trust a word out of your mouth."

"I'm pretty sure your lot has invented some substantial lies. You told everyone there's a huge monster in a loch. At least ours are plausible."

"Watch it," he warned, leaning forward into their table and then glancing suspiciously at the other patrons scattered around the pub. "You're still outnumbered."

"No one can tell I'm English," she shrugged. "I've picked up the local dialect."

"Have you?"

"Aye."

His returning grin replicated in his warm eyes. "Aye yourself," he replied, chewing slowly on his mouthful and considering her with curious amusement.

For whatever strange reason he had seemed to deem fit, instead of ordering an ordinary roast meal as she had—the original purpose for their evening out—John had opted adamantly for an entire plate of only one vegetable.

Clara skewered a potato from her own more diverse plate. "These were once catalogued as bastard potatoes to distinguish them from sweet potatoes, which England had first."

He stared dubiously at her fork. "Why do you know so much about potatoes?"

"Why do you know so much about the development of Michigan Interstate Highways?" she returned, raising her eyebrows.

"I get around," he smiled, returning to his plate.

"Well I read Shakespeare," she answered, lifting her shoulders. "And you don't read the line 'let the sky rain potatoes' and not want to find out what the hell he was insinuating by that."

His brow creased, curious, and so Clara continued with a smirk. "Henry VIII used to eat them thinking they were the sixteenth century version of Viagra which would get him a son."

John choked slightly on his current forkful and put a hand over his mouth. Managing to swallow without making a mess, he cleared his throat and stared down at his plate, clearly regarding his selected vegetable in a slightly different manner.

"Only sweet potatoes," she smiled in reassurance. "Your bastard potatoes there are completely aphrodisiac free."

"Right. Good. Good to know."

The glass of water beside his hand was lifted quickly to his mouth for a more than generous sip. Clara grinned into her plate, enjoying his momentary bewilderment.

"Liars, thieves, and _venereal_ fools," he muttered under his breath in disgust.

The gradual slide into early afternoon had slowly dispersed the lingering headache afflicting Clara's wellbeing. With no immediate intentions to move from the horizontal embrace on the couch, John had eventually swapped pages for screens and finally introduced— _subjected_ —her to the esteemed tree documentary, which she was partly surprised to find she rather enjoyed, mostly because her couch associate was under the impression he was more well-versed than the narrator and spoke through the entire two hours, giving her an excessive and unnecessary amount of added information. The expectant stare he sent in her direction once the film had finished had almost broke her stoic barriers for comedic retainment, but she appeased his ego, telling him with as much seriousness as she could muster he was correct in his insistence that it was the best documentary ever made. The returning frown and suspicious gaze told her he wasn't quite convinced, so she turned against him and hid her traitorous grin in his chest, ignoring all of his scrutinising questions and pretending to be asleep.

Murmuring inconsequential fragments of conversation while his fingers drew absent lines on the back of her neck, Clara gradually fell into genuine sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and low voice lulling her into warm and necessary unconsciousness.

Later, awaking alone in weak sunshine, the first glance through the wide windows revealed John to be in a deck chair with his guitar, staring out over the high cliff and into the white-capped ocean while he played. Eventually she went to check on him, wondering how it was possible he could just sit in the cold for such an extended period of time, let alone move his fingers across the frets. He was pensive and quiet, a little unresponsive as she asked him meaningless questions, and suffering in the temperature, passed him a blanket and the mildly-regulated-sugar-tea before retreating back inside.

She traded manta rays for something with a more land-based plotline and read until the light began to fade on the distant horizon, the unreachable clouds saturating with the burnt hue of orange before dying like embers in an abandoned fire. Her tall and frozen friend withdrew from the outside world, red cheeked and shivering with glistening, blurred eyes. He set his guitar silently on the couch beside her and stood close enough to the fireplace to perhaps be deemed a safety hazard. Clara pressed her fingertips into the wooden body of the instrument, feeling the embedded cold and considered how his skin must feel.

He turned gradually to face her, expression set with an odd curiosity, paired with something that she wasn't quite sure of. Perhaps a ruling, or decision had been reached somewhere in the ending moments of day.

 _Dinner. Let's get somebody else to make us dinner._

Portree—the biggest small town on the island was dark when they arrived, yellow lights glittering over relatively still waters in the harbour, the small waves distorting any other reflection. Freezing of course, the default setting allowing their breath to expand in front of them as John led her down the quiet roads. Promising this would be the best Sunday roast she'd ever have in the best pub she'd ever go to, he then began reassuring perhaps more himself than her, that the chances of this outing being an opportunity for somebody to use for financial advantage via tabloid media were very low. He went on to mutter something under his breath about the credibility of a country containing people who were sensible and controlled about pointless, meaningless fame.

The claim to minimal attention was accurate—the locals here were either used to an occasional visit from this particular figure of music royalty, or didn't really care. Both, was probably a fair conclusion. Clara had forgotten the effects of fame slightly, constant time spent alone in John's company removing the transparent veil, but it returned to her perceptions as they entered into a public setting. She looked at him differently for a moment, seeing the media portrait, the face of celebrity and renown. A few people had nodded greetings in his direction as the two of them entered the pub, and one man engaged in a quick, monosyllable handshake, but then they were left alone, undisturbed at their secluded corner table in the warm atmosphere.

"This is a date, okay?"

"Pardon?"

"This. Right now." John waved his knife to indicate their surroundings. "Dinner. We're on a date."

"Ah… Are we?"

"Yes," he said firmly, turning his immediate attention back to his plate.

Clara stared at him, waiting for some indication he was going to continue with an explanation for the unexpected and revelatory information. A suspended moment passed between them while he seemed suddenly much more interested in cutting potatoes into smaller than necessary pieces.

"John," she said slowly, cautious. "Want to elaborate on that?"

"We're not going to be friends anymore. We're going to be two people on a date. This is our first date." He sent her a grin and stabbed a potato with his fork. "Welcome to our first date."

None of that was particularly helpful. Clara blinked at him, trying to conjure up something to say. "Um… right. Okay. I would have worn something a little more… not this, if I'd known."

"Clara," he frowned, expression bordering on an annoyance that indicated she was missing a very obvious point, "you look fine. You're probably the most beautiful person I've ever met."

Staring in astonishment, she was then powerless to stop herself blushing, caught very much off guard. "That's… quite the compliment."

He shook his head. "It wasn't a compliment. It's just a fact."

Embarrassed and bewildered, she ducked her head and cleared her throat, sipping water while cursing internally at how hot her face felt. The odds of him not noticing the new colour of her skin were undoubtedly quite low.

"Nice date outfit," she remarked quickly, needing to deflect the attention from his relentless eyes.

"Did you know Liam Gallagher wears a parka and shades literally to fucking bed?"

"You're obsessed."

"A little," he grinned. "Competition _, mate."_

She smiled at his completing slide into a northern accent and glittering, humoured eyes, wanting to laugh but distracted by the way he was starting to look at her. _Predaceous_ was her best guess, but that felt too aggressive. He was just engaging her with a fixed and unabated intensity.

John had, however, apparently already moved on from the revelatory announcement to the sort of evening this was going to be. "This," he was saying, gesturing to his clothing. "All of this is iconic. What would happen if I stopped wearing it? Someone might think there was something wrong with me." A very wry and personally amused grin was sent in the direction of his plate.

"Ah… John?"

"Yes?"

"Why… Why is this a date?"

"I don't want to be friends with you anymore," he explained simply, lifting his shoulders.

"Right."

"I've given it a really good go," he continued without encouragement. "Four—five—days? Most of my friendships last less than thirty seconds, so I did quite well, considering."

"What are we going to be if we're not friends?"

"Two people on a date."

John dropped his intensive gaze and gave his avid scrutiny back to his meal, eating quietly and offering nothing else. Unsure what to do, Clara just stared at him while her own dinner was left forgotten in front of her, waiting for him to say something else. A minute passed in silence and eventually he had no choice but to return his focus to her.

"Fantasyland," he shrugged, swallowing, fingers skating over his throat before lowering to tap lightly on the edge of the table. "Dangerous place to live. To live there with ignorance? Fine. Knock yourself out. But in denial? Well. Trainwreck. I don't want that. Would you like some more water?"

Her glass had barely been touched but he picked up the small jug to quickly refill it to a precarious level, and then did the same to his empty one. He wasn't exactly nervous, but he also wasn't exactly devoid of a sudden apprehension either.

"Do you like dates? I am excellent on dates. I haven't been on a first date in a long time. Fifteen years. Maybe more."

"Usually I know I'm going on a date before I'm halfway through the date," she pointed out with a small smile.

"It's sort of a surprise date. Surprise. Have you been on a date with a five-time Grammy winner before?"

"I briefly dated the Gallagher brothers," she deadpanned. "Does that count?"

"Both?" A tiny edge of a smile pressed on his mouth.

"Mmm. At the same time. There's a reason Oasis broke up."

He put a quick hand over his mouth to hide proper amusement. "Who was better?"

"Noel," she replied blankly. "Definitely Noel."

"Knew it. Well, they only have Grammy nominations anyway." John's shy smile was fast transforming into a very familiar smirk. "I'm the winner."

Clara considered the man she was apparently participating in this evening's unexpected turn of events with. Technically, in a rather surreal sense, she was on a date with the five-time Grammy winner self-titled Doctor, nation-proclaimed genius and cultural icon. However, on the other hand, she had just spent a good chunk of the morning wondering how it was possible her life decisions had lead her to be on a couch in a cottage in Scotland, listening to John Smith avidly explain why the author of _Manta Rays: Ocean Giants,_ was wrong on all three chapters about migration patterns. The contrast between the two modes was a little difficult to comprehend.

"Clara," John started suddenly, looking across to her. "I think, in our situation, there's a lot of preconceived notions about what's supposed to happen next. And if we don't follow them, then we're supposed to feel guilty about doing something wrong. Our newspaper headlines summed them all up rather well. You're a widower—"

"Wasn't actually married," she cut in to correct.

"—I'm divorced—"

"And I would be a widow, not a widower."

"You're all"—He waved his fork around in an unintelligible motion—"fucked. And I'm… weird."

"Weird?"

"My socks don't match and I've ordered a plate of potatoes for dinner." He frowned and pointed slowly towards her meal. "Why didn't I just get what you're having?"

"That's a rather self aware statement."

"Am I weird?"

"Well…" She paused, hesitating. "You're not, _not_ weird."

"So I am weird."

"It's not a bad thing."

"I'm very selfish, too," he said, further furrowing his brows. "You're supposed to tell the other person things about you on a date, right? That's something about me. I'm selfish."

"I don't think you're selfish," she replied, pausing the rise of her fork and staring quizzically at him.

"I make everything become about me and I have a track record of putting myself before others. I would assume that fits that definition of selfish."

"The socks are more of an issue in my opinion," she murmured, lowering her gaze.

He didn't seem to be interested in jokes. Neither was she, for that matter.

"Friends with a full stop," John continued, swerving back onto what was hopefully the point, "that's just the easy way out, don't you think? To try and make a complicated situation simple. When really, what we should be doing, is whatever we want."

He raised his eyebrows, imploring and prompting her to give some sort of response.

"What—what do you want?"

"You know what I want, Clara. I told you last night, and I told you on the radio. I was very honest with myself, and with you, two weeks ago. I don't want to go backwards. I don't want to spend the next five days pretending. So, I can't be your friend. And if I'm making you worse, then all of this absolutely needs to stop right now."

"Are you giving me an ultimatum?"

"I think so, yes." He tipped his head slightly. "This is either a date, or our last dinner."

"Seems a little… extreme."

"Is it? I wouldn't have thought so." A weary and onerous sigh escaped from his mouth. "I'm bad at fixing things. But the good news is, I think I know how to at least address the solution.

"So," he demanded. "Out with it. What do you think the problem is?"

Surprised at the blunt and forthright manner he was insisting on, she pulled back. "Why do I have to say the problems?"

"Problems in the plural," he grinned, inhaling a deep breath. "Excellent. On you go."

Clara swallowed, feeling her mouth go a little dry, but then persisted at his instruction. "You don't think I've forgiven you. And, ah, you think I don't trust you. It's… stemming into sub-problems. Like, not wanting to wake up with me in the morning, and asking me… weird questions."

"Problems and sub-problems," he sighed, tipping his head back.

"And," she continued while she had the opportunity, "you just, ah… confuse me. I can't tell what you're thinking. That might not be a problem. It's just a… thing. Maybe we could—"

Clara cut herself off, frowning at him. He was staring vacantly at the wall to her left, nodding on repeat like a broken toy.

"Are you all right?"

John grinned, blinking and then refocusing his gaze back on her. "Yeah," he assured, shifting. "Fine. Just a bit bored."

Confused, Clara raised her eyebrows at another unanticipated reaction.

"This stuff is pretty boring to talk about."

"It was your idea," she pointed out, amused at his flippant attitude.

"Mmm," he agreed, and then groaned out in restive frustration, putting both hands through his hair. "So many boring problems. Who in their right mind wants to spend their Sunday evening doing this?"

"What would you rather be doing?" she grinned, lifting her glass as he shrugged.

"Talking you into bed."

The sip of water she was taking didn't pair well with the response. Clara spluttered and put a hand over mouth, coughing as she tried not to choke.

"Can't get much more honest than that, can I?" He smiled, eyes darting over her startled expression.

"No," she croaked, clearing her throat.

"It's not that I don't want to talk," he went on, now engaged in continuing to cut each potato into pointlessly smaller pieces, "I'd just rather spend the evening taking off your clothes."

Forcing herself under control, Clara adjusted in her chair and tried to compose herself. She picked up her knife and fork and slowly resumed eating in what she hoped was a decidedly poised and collected manner before making her response.

"I'm not actually in the habit of sleeping with someone after only one date. So maybe we should just rule that out right now."

John gave her a set and shameless smirk, chewing slowly on his mouthful. "Have you?" he asked after a moment.

"Have I what?"

"Slept with someone after only one date."

Feeling wary but doing her best not to be so affected by his candid line of questioning, she replied quickly. "Yes. Have you?"

"Yes. But I wasn't exactly on a date with them."

"Is that how we're going to fix this?" she swallowed, moving on. "Sleeping together?"

"No. Course not."

"Right. So… we're going to talk about your problems then?"

A tiny smile flashed on his mouth. He looked at his plate before taking a deep breath and regarded her with an unreadable expression. "I don't think I'm the problem."

"No?"

"No. You're the problem."

Clara sent back her own frown, feeling intuitively unsure. "What have I done?"

"Stuff."

"What stuff?"

He paused and took another mouthful, eating with a transfixed grin. "Stuff."

"Yeah—what stuff?"

"Stuff things."

"Can we please diversify our conversations? I thought we could talk about… you."

Smiling, John rested his fork on his bottom lip. "Let's talk about you instead."

"What about me?"

"Stuff."

"John," she sighed, tipping her head to indicate disapproval.

She had no idea what he was doing. If this was his way of entering into a helpful dialogue to lead them through constructive territory, it wasn't apparent to her. He suddenly seemed completely calm, devoid of any trepidation or the touch of apprehension he had previously displayed.

"Should we… talk about sex, then?" she said slowly, figuring it was an area of discussion that he would at least be interested in.

"Do _you_ want to talk about sex?"

She wiped her palms on her trousers, feeling like the room had become a little too warm all of a sudden. "Um… I don't know. What, what about it?"

He shrugged, casually twirling his fork between dextrous fingers. "Anything. Last night?"

"Last night shouldn't have happened."

"I know. I shouldn't have. On the other hand, you are extremely good at… receiving. You almost made me…" John stopped the sentence, eyes glued to her. "Well. Maybe we don't need details at the dinner table. But that was new. I was surprised at myself."

If she was embarrassed before, it was nothing compared to what she was experiencing now. This topic was a terrible starting point. Regretting her encouragement, she fixed her eyes on her plate, feeling blood rush back into her face and skin burn hot.

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You really are." He smiled, eyes glittering as she risked a quick glance at him.

"I'm really not.

"How adorable."

"Ador— _adorable?"_ she stressed, utterly confused at his uncharacteristic descriptor. "What's wrong with you?"

"You're rather adorable when you blush."

None of this was helping her situation. She picked up her glass, distracting herself with cold water. She felt entirely on edge now, uneasy and not quite on solid ground. There was nothing false about his manner, but this was certainly a long way away from anything that might be considered flirting. He was purposely leading her into uncomfortable territory. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, pulling herself together as he continued.

"We could. If we wanted to. I brought… precautionary materials."

"You're allowed to use their real names," she commented, giving him a dry smile and trying to divert the attention from herself.

"Not at the dinner table," he scolded, clearly trying not to return her expression. "Have some common decency."

Clara narrowed her eyes at him, realising suddenly that this—obviously—was what Amy must have been insinuating as her easy and foolproof way to expose his motives. She almost wanted to laugh, refraining only because it felt inappropriate.

"I didn't bring them with intent. I just did. Sorry."

She expected him to be at least slightly bashful about the undeniable insinuation that went against all agreement for admirable intentions, yet he didn't seem to be at all bothered by his action, and didn't seem to be particularly sorry.

"We don't need them."

"That's a shame."

"No, John," she continued, "I'm just saying that if we… _did_ , we don't need your precautionary methods."

"I don't actually want five baby science nerds, Clara." He frowned, tapping his knife against his plate.

"Neither do I, you idiot," she sighed, wanting to roll her eyes. "But it's also the twenty first century. I'm really good at orally reminding myself everyday to inhibit that possibility."

"Oh." He blinked, understanding. "Right. Got it. Okay."

"Unless there's any…" Clara stabbed into a parsnip with her fork, feeling herself gain back a little bit of control. "... interesting diseases you would like to share with me. Verbally. Not… physically."

He stared at her, suddenly fighting off a grin. "No. I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, giving him a pleasant smile. "It's a bit late for you to be asking."

"Mmm. This is an excellent dinner conversation."

"One of the best conversations I've ever had. Proper first date material."

Retrieving his knife, John resumed his absent cutting, a tiny but obvious smile apparent on his lips.

"Happy about something?" Clara asked casually, smirking.

"No," he shrugged, biting into his lip and shaking his head. "This is just a general, normal smile." He pointed a finger at his mouth.

"Better, isn't it."

"No."

Clara raised her eyebrows, watching him try again to compress the traitorous curve from his rapid response.

"Well, yes," he amended slowly. "Yes. Doesn't matter though. I'm fine either way. Saves a… job."

"Sometimes, rarely," she smiled, "you're very transparent."

John shrugged. Unlike her, if this conversation was in anyway affecting his levels of shy embarrassment, he was either hiding it completely or wasn't afflicted at all. Another vagary she didn't understand. He seemed to be able to consciously pick and choose what topics he had indifferent confidence in. Clara centered on his face, observing his light amusement transform and fall into something different. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He stopped eating, instead pushing food absently around his plate. She watched his fingers make their familiar crawl to press into his chest like he was trying to touch a tangible sensation.

"I've only ever had one mode when it comes to sex." His hand stilled and his index finger pressed hard into his sternum. _"Me."_

The handle of his knife tapped quietly but repetively against the table. "Everything has to be about me. I have to be in charge. Even when it's about _you—"_ An intensive and unblinking gaze focused on her. "It's really about me. Last night you made me feel like I wasn't in charge. It caught me off guard."

"I didn't… mean to make you feel like that."

John tilted his head while his eyes saturated with a soft awareness. "Course you didn't," he replied delicately. "But I have issues with sex. I'm sure you've already reached that conclusion."

He leant forward slightly, resting his forearm on the table. "When I asked you how many men you've slept with, I did that because—" A small pause. "It was a very intrusive question. I'm sorry."

There was no sincerity in his apology, but his eyes remained soft and cautious. "I wanted to know because I think you've experimented. I think you know yourself very well, and you know men very well."

"So?" she responded carefully, fractionally lifting her shoulders. "Again… it's the twenty first century."

John shook his head, dragging fingers over his jaw. "No, no, you misunderstand. I just wanted to confirm a theory I have."

It felt overdramatic, the way he was carefully picking through his words and withholding and extending his explanations. She could feel herself being fast directed into a position of irritation while he was intent to remain so obscure about what he was doing.

"What theory?"

"That you've never slept with someone like me before."

"John, if this is turning into some weird way of letting me know you've got a sex dungeon in London and you're into… whipping and… leather stuff, you can just tell me outright."

His warm laugh was instantaneous and sincere, washing between with a light rush of something she felt more familiar with.

"No," he grinned, shaking his head and then brushing a slow hand through the front of his hair. "No, that's not what I like."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been surprised."

Keeping silent as he clearly tried not to continue laughter, John looked over the hand covering the grin on his mouth. Pulling himself together, he slowly lowered his arm. "That's not what you like, either."

There was nothing of lust or intent in his tone. All Clara was receiving out of the interaction was the disconcerting sensation that he was slowly crawling his way into her head. Slivers of concern began finding their grip around her veins. Not because of the topic, but still because of how he was looking at her. Dark and engrossed, unaware of their immediate surroundings.

She shifted on her chair, keeping her expression neutral. "How do you know what I like? I could have a secret sex dungeon."

"Well," he smiled, _"I_ would be surprised if you did."

"I'll have to give you a proper tour of my house then."

"I suppose I could see the benefit in tying you down." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'd have my hands free."

"I wouldn't let you tie me down," she responded, frowning and wanting to move on. "What's your point?"

"That." He shrugged like it was obvious, tipping his fork to point at her. "That right there."

"What? Stop being so elusive."

"Stop with the fucking denial then."

"What denial?"

"You know the real reason I slept with all those women," he asserted, voice low and concentrated. "You understand it better than you want to admit to yourself. I wasn't about to spell it out in detail on the radio."

"I don't understand."

"Yes," he growled, "you do."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me," he snapped back, pulling his chair in closer to the table. "Sure. I've got problems and sub-problems. But I'm not really the issue here. You are. I want to fix this. And the solution is very simple. First—this is a date. Second—you're going to have to start being very honest. Not with me. With yourself."

He lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, an almost casual and uncaring gesture. His expression replicated the action but his eyes gave away the fact that he was beginning to get agitated. Abrupt anxiety flooded through her. She blinked and ducked her gaze, focusing on the glass of water as her heart began hammering in her chest.

"I'm making you nervous."

"No," she swallowed, shaking her head.

"Don't do that," John instructed quickly, firmly. "Don't deny it. I am done with denial. This is me overwhelming you. See? You're halfway to panicking. You're tense. You can hardly look me in the eyes."

Breathing out, he grimaced and then spoke in a tone suggesting he wasn't to be disputed with. "Sex is just sex, right? It's easy. Normal. Possibly inconsequential. Not always good. And I think with Danny, it was good, and normal, and you trained him well. It wasn't boring, but sometimes, _sometimes,_ you got restless with the repetition."

"You can't know any of that," she muttered, her failing lines of defence making a final stand.

"Oh, I'm just making an assumption," he snapped, eyes flashing with a dangerous edge. "A really fucking accurate one."

"You barely know me. You're just guessing. It's been thirty two days. Half of that we weren't together. It's implausible."

"Clara, as pathetic and poetic as this sounds, I knew you the moment you looked at me outside the studio."

The harsh insistence in his tone softened as he eased into a more gentle manner. "You've never slept with someone and not been in charge of the situation. You get men to do what you want, and I'm sure they've always been more than happy to comply to your soft demands."

"So what? Why are you fucking obsessing over it? We've only slept together twice. And none of it was like that."

"We've slept together four times."

She didn't bother arguing, knowing he would remain resolute on the trivial counting system.

"This isn't about sex," he continued, insistent. "It's about you. If we don't address this and if you won't trust me with this, then… we're done. We'll never work. And that… that would be a real fucking shame, because I really like you. And I think it would rather devastate me."

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and pressed long fingers against his mouth. "Door's over there." John tilted his knife in the appropriate direction. "If you don't want to hear this, then I suggest you use it. I haven't tied you down. You're free to leave. Keys…" He reached into his pocket and placed them on the table between them. "... here."

"You're being mean to me," she accused, brushing her hand quickly over her forehead.

"Sort of. It's more that I'm doing a hard drag out of fantasyland. Feels cruel. But I don't know how else to do it. I don't have a gentle approach."

She sent her palms over her trousers again, fingers digging into the sides of her legs while he continued.

"Right here, is why your last relationship failed. This is the gap and the space that was unbreachable. And the difference between Danny and I is that he took three years to figure this out and then didn't know how to confront you. Me—well, I figured it out in five hours at a police station and I do know how to confront you."

John sighed, scrubbing at his eyes for a moment and then dropping his hands to press both palms flat into the table. "Your… life. It's organised. You make lists. You probably have fucking… Post It notes handy for problem-solving. Right?"

"Right," she repeated carefully.

"You're pedantic. Fastidious about most things. You work on the organisational side of a creative, chaotic job, and you're good at it. You're young, as well, to hold your position. I think in some respects you've been lucky—certainly your relationship with Jack has played a role—but it's only accelerated an inevitable conclusion.

"You have the extended privileges of the white middle class, but you've still fought for what you have, succeeding because you're calm and rational under pressure. Intelligent. Quick. Make smart decisions on a regular basis."

His eyes darted over her face. "You're slightly narcissistic, but you're aware of it and so use it to your advantage. You know how men, women, look at you. And you don't have a problem using people to get what you want."

"These are some really far-flung assumptions," she muttered, wanting to drop his gaze but not knowing how.

"Shush," he instructed, shifting in his chair and continuing. "You're more persuasive than you realise, definitely more manipulative than you realise. You can read people. Again, better than you think. But you will consciously exploit weaknesses to pursue your own goals."

"John—"

"And the most consequential thing, of course," he murmured, ignoring her interjection and holding her eyes, "is that you know how to lie."

In her chest, her heart pounded against her ribcage, a frantic, hopeless repeat of strained anxiety. He was relentless now, unceasing and adamant in his task, voice low and imperative. His emphatic words washed over her ears as if he were speaking right up against her skin.

"You're _not,"_ he emphasized, leaning forward, "a casual liar. A lot of people who lie form a habit, and eventually don't even know they're doing it." He shook his head slightly, frowning. "Not you. You are very conscious of what you're doing. Your friends and family don't know the extent of just how good you are at lying to them. You let them assume what they want. Maybe the last two months have given them a better insight into something they might have only glimpsed at before, but you'd never allow them into a position where they might actually start to feel like there's something they need to _do_ about it.

"And why, _why,"_ he stressed, insistent, "would you be lying to the people who love you?"

John stood up suddenly and grabbed the back of his chair, dragging it around to place directly beside her. He sat down, close enough now so she could see the ring of colour in his eyes, the circle of endless black and the hint of red that suggested the need for sleep.

"It's simple, really." He sighed in a wearisome sort of way. "And it's such a stupid, pointless and boring problem, ridiculous when you put it into perspective against your own self awareness. You know you could fix it if you tried, but you've never learned to share. So when someone good comes along, like Danny, who loves you, who really does care and wants to understand—too fucking bad. He doesn't stand a chance. And neither did River."

John wiped his fingers over his cheek before trailing absently down his neck. "I'm not blind. You probably classify it as an anger issue, but that's just been a consequence of your friendly, fragile denial. You, Clara, were fucked the moment your dad walked out of that doctor's office. Fourteen and heartbroken and there was _nothing_ you could do about it. What did you receive in return? Mindless, blank rage while everything you hate had free fucking reign on their brand new and destructive paths. Out they came, one after the other. Reckless, stubborn, _selfish._

"The psychiatrists afterwards—well, what the fuck did they know, right? You wouldn't write down your feelings in your fucking feelings journal, or talk to your suddenly emotionally absent father, talk to your friends, talk to some stranger about someone they never knew, someone… someone who _you_ only knew with a child's mind. There was only one thing that helped, one instantaneous moment that allowed for the real return of your real fucking fix. And unfortunately—the solution was always going to be ridiculous while you've got absurd nihilism gripping one hand and complete rationality holding the other. I imagine, judging by the scar on your back, you discovered pretty quickly how unsustainable it was."

He laughed slightly with a dark amusement, running fingers over his chin. "So you've had to build your life around the illusion instead. In your job, in your home, how you sleep with men, how you treat relationships. You pretend because you know it's false, that it's just smoke and mirrors, some reflection of an image you once created in a moment of desperation. Because when you're angry—it's not there. When you need it the most, you're betrayed by your own goddamn head. So you've had no choice. And, honestly—congratulations, you've done a fucking excellent job of it, Clara. Far superior to anything I could ever manage to do. I could never convince my friends or my wife."

He spoke quickly and quietly, unceasing. "Except now it's spawned into a bigger problem, yeah? Because fourteen years later, as a fully formed and rational adult—you've discovered you haven't really changed. In the face of the next tragedy, all that work you did last time, everything you've built means fuck all, because in here"—John put his index finger into her temple—"you're still the barely legal, I'll buy myself a death sentence with two wheels and five gears reckless teenager who just wants to check how fast this can go. And it's so _very_ tempting to climb back on, isn't it. You're as bad as me, buying your own personal fucking metaphor. I sit and feel the vertigo of that cliff, the pull, the temptation, the _yes and no_. And it feels good. Because it's real and it's mine. I'm in charge.

"Right here"—The finger slid to the back of her head, tapping twice—"is where you find it again. Pure, unfiltered control. One tiny push, one slip, one bad turn, and it's over." He bared his teeth, lips curling in a perilous grin.

"Control is an addiction. When it's gone, you'll do anything to get it back. Including forcing your friends into an impossible position, including fucking people outside your marriage, including not going to the Science Museum, being arrested for assault…" He dropped his hand, placing it over the back of her chair. "... Including destroying your career and letting all your relationships fail.

"No one's allowed in your head, Clara. If they did, they'd realise the truth of the matter and you'd be forced to confront the fact that you've built a brick wall—actually, no, a concrete dam—on a fucking tectonic fault line. And when there's a quake—please excuse my dramatic tendencies—" He grinned again and slapped his palm flat on the table, using his weight to shake it. "You haven't got a goddamn clue how to stop the fractures and the fallout from the violation of section fucking three's national building code on foundations.

"You and me. We are very similar. I'm just describing how I see myself. If it feels like I'm clawing my way through your head, it's only because I'm rather certain I know how you feel."

John took a deep breath and flashed a smile, leaning back in his chair. "I find most problems very boring. This one included. But—" He reached to drag his plate towards him and picked up his fork, stabbing it hard into his meal. "Have you been imagining I'm just going to ignore all that?"

Raising the utensil and chewing slowly, his dark and ceaseless eyes burnt into her own. A dangerous smile fixed to his mouth. "By the way, it's Sunday night. That was probably the most accurate two minute therapy session you've ever had, and I triple my rates on weekends. You owe me three hundred quid."


	12. Dramatics In A Public Setting

**Chapter 12: Dramatics In A Public Setting**

* * *

Parliament Hill was Clara's favourite place to view the city in which she lived. A skyline of landmarks and speckled cranes, and a vista worthy enough to watch the effects of gunpowder and treason.

Four hundred years later however—Parliament was still standing, King James was dead, but from other, more disease related causes, Guy Fawkes and Robert Catesby were long decapitated—and so it had fallen to Clara, who was alive and well, to take their place and admire the view. Always to her slight amusement, the Houses of Parliament were now mostly obscured by the rise of an ever growing city.

Amidst a happy relationship, it was routine that would bring her to watch light spread over the sprawling city skyline in the earlier hours of Saturday mornings. It wasn't a ritual, or a set-in-stone tradition when she came here with Danny, it was just a _thing_ they would do together, a repetitive event that became a habit when London was free of excessive wind, storm, or F-5 tornado, and they were free of the lasting effects from a Friday evening.

Ascending grassy paths, the two of them spoke mostly of normal and inconsequential moments of their respective weeks, gossip of their two very sensible friends and two very unsensible friends, plan for the following days— _etcetera, etcetera, etcetera_ —perhaps she would laugh as he tried to explain why West Brom weren't signing the right players this year and what he would have done instead, listen with feigned interest and a crooked grin while he listed all the cars he would one day buy on his teacher's wage, offer support as he worried about the students that he had cause to worry over, or the sister in Birmingham who might be in a concerning relationship. Anything and everything of his life.

Other days it was different. Other days, she was expected to give big answers to small questions.

 _Do you think your mum would have liked me? Why doesn't your dad talk about her? Maybe we should move in together?_

Eventually and quietly, their habitual trips had declined and she couldn't really remember why or who had initiated the change. An excuse from him at first perhaps, a busy weekend or a late Friday, and then it was only every other week until they had stopped altogether in the last few months before _the_ _event,_ and she had barely even noticed. Consequential now, but trivial at the time, and maybe that was telling in itself, that she hadn't really cared enough to observe the shift and the change between them.

Instead of being able to recall the last time they had gone together, she had only the final time, because of course the final time she'd gone, she had been by herself, alone and sedate because Danny couldn't come anymore, he was buried in the ground. She had walked away from his funeral and driven there; and of course it had started fucking raining as she walked up the hill, and of course it was cold and miserable and London was obscured in the mist. And she was still reasonably certain she hadn't cried, just felt numb and sick and couldn't remember a single thing of importance she had told him on this hill. Not an answer or a reason or an explanation, not one thing about herself that felt honest and substantial, that was beyond the simple surface level of—

"I'm being awfully mean to you, aren't I," John said without expression, cutting into her drifting thoughts. He was close, leg almost touching hers, hand still placed around the back of her chair.

"Yes," she agreed slowly, dragging her gaze in the direction required to meet his eyes.

Still slightly lost, Clara noted quietly that the man in front of her was the polar opposite of her deceased boyfriend. In speech and action and personality, in appearance, interests and hobbies. John wouldn't have liked Danny, and without the added stature of fame, she was pretty sure Danny would have been completely indifferent about him.

She regarded him carefully and then glanced to the car keys placed purposely beside them on the table. "What would you do if I left?"

"Nothing."

"You'd just let me leave? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"After everything we went through over the last month?" she queried, raising her eyebrows with a hinting touch of skepticism.

The answer was firm and resolute, as if his response had already been chosen. "Yes."

Closing her eyes, Clara sighed and pressed fingers into them, debating what her next move was supposed to be. For the sake of the appearance, being that they were in a public location, she removed the hands trying to press her eyeballs back into her skull and lowered them into her lap, gingerly blinking away the dark spots obscuring her vision. John filled her sight, inexpressive and apparently heedless of his former words. Relaxed in his chair, he tapped his fingers on the back of hers, waiting for her to form some sort of reply.

She leant back into his hand, expecting him to remove the inadvertent touch on her spine. He was purposely slow, dragging his fingers away like it required a great effort of strength and perseverance.

"You're playing a dangerous game with me, John."

"It's not a game." The words were slow from his mouth, each attentively pronounced and inflected meticulously in his Scottish rhotic.

"No? Then explain what the fuck that was."

"I've got a fetish about dramatics in a public setting."

She didn't laugh. It might have been funny in another circumstance, but nothing in his tone suggested any sort of humour. He didn't seem to be interested in finding it funny either. Resisting the temptation to press again at her eyes, Clara's gaze drifted over his shoulder. There were people at the bar near the far end of the room laughing at something. A joke perhaps. A man passed a pint to his friend and pointed to the ceiling. Another chorus of laughter filtered into her ears.

"I don't like dramatics," she murmured absently, a tiny crease appearing on her brows.

John didn't reply. Or if he did, she didn't notice. She was missing something. She dragged her eyes away from the bar, blinking him into focus. A nagging sensation lurked in the back of her head. She fixed her gaze on him properly. Really, insistently giving him a brazen stare. In all honesty, he looked like he had just shot himself in the chest.

 _Dramatic, Oswald._

A self-inflicted, on-purpose wound. Her eyes ran over his expression. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. The steady gaze faltered, flickering away. It was a quick change. An almost instant shift into another state, the confidence and authority he had just shown reshaping into something else in the silence.

Something was wrong. She felt strange. There was a complete absence of anger in her system. She should have been angry. Furious. Everything he had just done was completely out of line. It was intrusive, cruel and decisively arrogant. At first, she thought she was just finding herself in a position where she couldn't be bothered to be angry. Danny would have laughed at that. _Clara Oswald: couldn't be bothered to get angry._ A statement contradictory in itself. But the longer she stared at him, the more certain her reaction was not of apathy, but a complete lack of concern for his analysis. The peripherals of alarm and the gripping nervous edge began dispersing as if they had never entered her system in the first place, replaced instead with an insidious type of unease that crept into her chest. His words had felt too premeditated to be some spur of the moment outburst. Like he had been running over the transcript, choosing exactly how to insert a knife to hurt the most.

A burst of laughter at the bar distracted her from the train of disjointed thought.

"What—What's going on?" she said slowly, turning slightly so she was facing him in a more direct manner.

"I just asked you a question."

"No," she frowned, screwing up her eyes for a moment, trying to pinpoint the cause of the hovering disconcertment. "No—not what you said. Why did you do that?"

His eyes were fixed and unblinking to a point somewhere behind her head.

"John?"

"Do you… want me to keep going?" he asked, impassive. "I can say more things."

"No, thank you. That was enough." She gritted her teeth slightly and took a few breaths before continuing. "Are you aware of this thing where instead of you telling me what's wrong with me, I tell you what's wrong with me?"

"No."

He offered nothing further.

"Do you like dramatic metaphors because you're a songwriter or because you're just a dick?"

The second attempt at achieving a sufficiently more useful outcome received, not unexpectedly, no reply or response, and her third was just counterproductive pettiness. "Have you had an actual conversation with a human being in the last twenty years? Or has it just been the neighbourhood cats and whatever trees you might've come across?"

This wasn't helping. Clara reached for her glass and took a sip of water, letting the cool liquid ease a dry throat. She closed her eyes to block him from her vision and tried not to sigh. Pointless cynicism wasn't the right approach.

"You're supposed to leave now," John announced quietly, interrupting her small moment of reflection.

She turned to look at him, frowning. "What? Why would I leave?"

"Because I've made you angry."

"But I'm—I'm not angry."

"I've made you angry, so now you're supposed to leave."

"John, I'm not angry."

"Yes, you are," he replied, slowly insistent. "Because I was mean to you."

Clara blinked at him, a little startled. The assertiveness had gone entirely from his voice. He was beginning to mumble in a way that was making it hard for her to hear.

"It's easier. It's easier for you, if you leave."

"What are you talking about? You want me to drive off right now? And go where?"

"You could go back to the house, and then leave in the morning."

"Sorry, John. I'm not getting this at all. You want me to physically leave you here, in this pub, and drive myself back to London?"

He nodded in accordance to her clarification. "Yes."

"Because of that fucking performance you did just now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I was mean to you."

A circular conversation. Great. Again, he didn't offer anything further, only cast his eyes away from her to stare vacantly at nothing as if purposely avoiding her gaze.

"You're overreacting. John, whatever this is, it's… absurd. I don't understand what's going on. You're being unbelievably erratic. And you're acting like… like a child, actually. Talk to me. Communicate. As an adult."

Somewhere in her confusion—the source unexplained and not quite identifiable—she had a feeling he wasn't really overreacting. That he was reacting exactly as he should be in the circumstances. Further hints of trepidation filtered through her.

"Can you talk to me properly, please? Why did you do that?"

"I want you to leave."

"Why? I haven't done anything. John, _you_ brought me here. Claiming, by the way, that this is a date. Why would you want me to just go?"

"I wanted to show you we could be on a date," he murmured, swallowing and then running his tongue along his bottom lip.

"Well, it's not," Clara sighed, pushing fingers into her temples. "We're supposed to be friends, remember? You know that. We agreed. Just claiming you can't and giving me some fucking ultimatum isn't going to help anything. Saying you would rather have me leave than fix whatever this is, isn't the right way to go about it."

"This _is_ fixing the problem," he stressed quietly. "You have to go. Go away from me."

"John, we were fine until last night," she reasoned, disoriented and shaking her head. "We had… an angry moment. We put ourselves in a stupid situation and it got out of hand. That doesn't mean it's unrecoverable. We just need to talk about it."

"I can't be around you."

No, she was really missing something now. Absolutely. Undoubtedly. The implication was clear. The accusation was directed at her.

"Why do you think I'm the problem? I haven't… done anything."

In another circumstance, she would have already long backed out of this conversation. It felt absolutely futile and unproductive. On the other hand, she didn't often feel like she was the one that was supposed to be offering the reparation on an undetermined issue.

"Okay, well… I'm not leaving. So, now what? Your plan hasn't worked."

Silence.

 _Fucking hell._

"Are we just going to sit here not talking until they start locking the doors?"

More silence. A large part of her was beginning to become utterly bored. _Absurd nihilism versus complete rational,_ she thought wryly to herself before taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly into her hand. Problems were boring. He was definitely right about that. She didn't want to spend the evening sliding around some incoherent fight she had no idea how to approach. The feeling of monotony, however, was held back from fully forming in the face of the edging disconcertment. That there was a problem here she was missing. She was pretty sure he'd just thrown the entire jigsaw in her direction. She just had to piece it together. Which was fucking annoying, actually, because she hated jigsaw puzzles. She had better things to do with her time.

Clara pressed her fingers into her eyes. "Fucksake," she breathed, not capable of keeping her frustration entirely internal. "I don't know how to do this."

She looked at him straight and spoke in a clear and direct manner. "John, if I've done something, I'm oblivious. You'll need to tell me.

"Is this trust?" she guessed, frowning with confusion. "Because I trust you. I've trusted you since day one. I've known you thirty two days and I think I trust you with my entire life. Which sounds insane. But I just do. An illogical phenomena. I'd known you for what—two hours? And I was sleeping on your shoulder. You were a stranger."

John was unaffected by her words, staring only to a distant point in front of him. His fingers rested against the edge of the table, thumb tapping intermittently on the underside.

"I made a mistake with Dan," Clara swallowed, attempting something else. "I know that. I didn't… talk to him. Or didn't want to. I'm not going to do the same thing with you. Everything you just said, it's… I can tell you."

It was a serious, genuine offer, and if she wasn't so distracted she would have been wholly startled by just how easy that was to say. "I can go through everything you said and tell you anything you want."

Any reasoning through speech was beginning to feel completely hopeless. He was basically unresponsive. If he was listening, he showed no sign of hearing what she was saying.

"Fuck," she breathed to herself before recognising she was probably a little defeated. "Why is this happening? We're good. Good together. This was always going to be difficult, yeah? But I don't… John. We've had a weird twenty four hours. But we were fine this morning. We've been fine all week. This is getting out of control. You can't just shut down on me like this. I don't know what to do. I need you to help me. Please."

His following expression of emotion took her completely by surprise and was the last thing she wanted to see. She pressed her hand into his forearm automatically, feeling a sinking rush of helplessness. He brushed quickly at the evidence on his cheeks but couldn't clear the glaze in his eyes.

Clara didn't feel equipped or prepared for a situation like this. She had no experience in whatever this was. She didn't know him. Not really. Thirty two days was nothing. She didn't believe in his self-proclaimed poetically pathetic descriptor that you could know a person by looking at them, understand who they were without talking and connecting in a more substantial way. And although she had once told him something of the same, she hadn't really mean it in a literal sense. A first impression always felt like a projection of her own wishes and expectations. She couldn't figure him out instantly, recognise what he was thinking from a glance or a sentence. She disagreed again that they were similar; he was different to her, responded to or interpreted emotion in a way she didn't understand or had no qualifications in, and she had no real comprehension of his state of mind. It felt like trying to read a book in a language she hadn't yet learned.

Her eyes darted over his abject and raw expression and she struggled to drag herself away from what she was witnessing. "Can you explain?" she said gently, brushing at his arm. "Tell me something?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," he whispered, his rough tone barely audible as he stared hard at the table. "Okay? I just don't want to."

The thought of a serious implication like that was making her feel ill. She crushed it down.

"Okay," she blinked, conceding, powerless and out of any reasonable ideas. "I'll do what you want. But I can't leave you here. Come—come with me. Let me just take you home."

She pushed her chair out and stood up, reaching for her coat and then the keys beside them. "I can… go afterwards, I guess."

Other than his eyes, he remained stoically uncompromising. His back was turned away from the other people at the bar and for his sake, she was glad of the small reprieve.

"I'm not leaving you crying in a fucking pub," she muttered conclusively, resolute and quietly insistent.

Thankfully, he seemed to find some sort of reasonable sense after hearing that, and Clara watched him repeat her movements. Chair, coat, exit.

The air was ruthless on her skin as they left the comfortable warmth of the building. She'd forgotten, almost, how sharp the temperature would be. She gritted her teeth and fought against it entering her lungs. There wasn't much point wearing a coat. Simply the necessity to breathe was the only thing required for the cold to infiltrate her body. But it cleared her head and she found herself relaxing slightly.

The car was a street away. She followed behind him, giving a bit of space rather than walking immediately beside his taller frame, not wanting to exacerbate whatever was going on. He was functioning in what felt like autopilot, one foot in front of the other, expressionless and impervious to the cold.

Reaching the car, she tried a completely different tactic. The doors shut out the cold and relieved the onset cryopathy this country was intent to force upon her.

"You forgot to mention how funny I am in your assumption speech."

No response. Clara gave him a moment to comprehend the sentence and then pressed play on her phone. Oasis transmitted through the car speakers, the familiar, Mancunian tones of his former chart rivalry entering the small space.

Bad. It was bad, then. Because that had been funny. Reasonably funny. Enough so that there should have at least been a tiny hint of a smile on his lips. He had been like this before, straight after the radio show. A despondent, vulnerable state. Uncommunicative, barely responsive and unreceptive as if he were simply shutting down to everything around him. She gazed at him for a few moments before starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. She wanted to smile. In some helpless sense, she wondered what he would've had to actually do to make her leave and abandon him while he was like this. It would have had to be much worse. Surely he understood that. Perhaps not. Slight irony filtered through her as she thought about her initial response to participating in Disaster Thursday.

She left Liam and Noel to fill the silence between them as she drove north, eyes fixed on the white centre line, the repeating flash of road markers and constant rush of grey tarmac.

Her thoughts drifted to Danny. She sighed slightly. A Sunday night in London. He would probably have been at her place. Or maybe, he would have been preoccupied. With someone else. Distant, two month old anger made a languid pass through her system, but it dispersed without staying long enough to cause any lingering effects. She was tired, she supposed. Tired of crisis and eight weeks of a continual plight that she was required to have some sort of involvement in. It felt selfish, but the effort to sustain this type of energy was both exhausting and tedious. She reminded herself, again wanting to smile, that this week had been pitched as a relaxing, restful holiday. Apparently, as it turned out, she wasn't capable of putting herself in a position where that was immediately possible. Or, perhaps, that had never been a realistic option. If she'd wanted boredom and peace, she could have stayed at home, exchanging glares with the cat and trying to figure out how to sleep without needing to spend half the night with her hands in the sink.

Danny's fault. Her fault. Industrialism and automobile creation's fault.

She risked a glance at John. A quick and fleeting brush of focus. His eyes were closed, head tilted against the window, hands on his lap. He seemed very young all of sudden. As if he were experiencing a particular emotion for the first time, or had been given too many things at once and was yet to understand the concept of why he had them. He wasn't that much older than her, yet he seemed much younger in some respects; his child-like fascination with his surroundings, like he had grown up but never quite lost the enchantment and captivation with the things that she, now, brushed over with dismissive, blasé eyes. Full of information and knowledge he was desperate to share, but had stored away because he had no one to tell, or no one had ever really wanted to listen. Ironic, perhaps, for an acclaimed songwriter.

For a moment she struggled trying to separate the human person from a celebrity image. The aleatory moment of their original meeting struck her again; the strangely surreal sensation that she was in this position, participating within a scene she was never have supposed to have been apart of. She was meant to be in London with Danny, and the man beside her was supposed to have been a passing, insignificant moment from a previous week—three hours in a studio on a Thursday and that would have been the end of their short afternoon relationship. She would have greeted him in the foyer, showered him with profuse apologies for their incompetent door staff, considered for a moment how beautiful he was as she watched him across the studio desk while pretending she knew his music better than she did. Perhaps asked him minor questions to deflect Jack's barraging intrusiveness, and then organised his driver to meet him at an alternative entrance of the building, away from the swarming mob of photographers and reporters.

She might have thought about him later, how he looked and how he moved, the subtle grace and calm composure he seemed to inhibit. Perhaps that would have varied somewhere into what it might have been like to kiss him and what he would be like as a lover, wondered why his wife had cheated on him and what his body would have felt like on her own, because really, he was unbelievably beautiful, and she would have been just as captivated by his dark eyes and low voice then as she was now. She might have wondered what she would have done if he'd pulled her into an empty room and pressed her hard against the door—if she would have stopped him or just let him break her relationship before she found out that had already been done in a different way, that it wasn't because she was shutting Danny out, but because she had never really let him in in the first place.

And yet, she might have still hated John Smith later, not for their future jokes of assault on her friend for his indecent questioning, but for his own obvious arrogance and audacious, disparaging front. Or maybe she would have considered the reputation he sustained wasn't quite right or didn't ring true, because maybe he would have looked at her across the desk like he looked at her when she caught him staring sometimes, with all the confidence in the world, and with all the endless warmth he seemed to inhibit.

She experienced a sudden and desperate rush of dismay. It was sharp and biting in her chest, a visceral sensation that didn't entirely disperse as the previous pass of anger had. The very, _very,_ last thing on her list of things she wanted to do was to hurt him. In fact, it wasn't on her list. She didn't even have a fucking list. If she did have a list, something to do with solving this situation would be the only thing on it, in capital letters, highlighted and underlined. Written on a Post It. Maybe written on a Post It. A normal sheet of paper would be just as sufficient. He wasn't right about everything.


	13. Monster

**Chapter 13: Monster**

* * *

The cold was making her head go numb. Although being a rather unpleasant sensation, it was infinitely preferable to everything else that was afflicting her current state of being.

Scotland was too dark. Pitch black in fact, not a star or glimmer of moonlight above. The sort of dark that allowed no definition between the sky and the earth. She could see only her breath and the faint outline of the car as she stepped past it. Beyond that… nothing.

John hadn't said a word on their arrival back at the house, simply retreated to his bedroom and closed the door. Clara had walked down the hall and put her palm flat against the frame, deliberating through her options. She could march in, further demand answers, try some other elusive approach, and then… _what?_ Something. Something had to be done. She had no idea. Her knuckles ran absently over her bottom lip as she contemplated her next move. A thin yellow line spread in a hazy glow onto the reflective wood beneath the door. Shifting her palm, she made a fist, a fraction of an inch away from knocking.

Uncertainty made her hesitate. She leant back against the wall and then left, reattiring herself in coat and boots, resolving to address this in conditions that would allow for some clarity instead.

Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she made her way around the side of the house. The sound grated into sensitive ears and made her cringe slightly before stone switched to grass.

The dark, the dark, the deep and lovely dark.

It was deathly silent. There were no trees to rustle in the wind. Not that there was any wind to speak of. Even the waves somewhere far below seemed to be reluctant to make any giveaway sound on the plethora of rocks that protruded out of the sea as if in desperate attempt to clamber from unforgiving currents.

 _Nothing._

Nothing to see, nothing to hear. She pulled the sleeves of her coat over her fingers and bunched her hands into fists, walking toward the cliff edge. She couldn't remember if she was afraid of the dark. John had kept up a quiet insistence that there were monsters wandering the barren plains, a casual statement paired with an unwavering refusal to elaborate. He was inclined to simply stare out the window and state _monster,_ pointing and then looking at her like he wanted a companion to observe some well-known creature journeying past the house. It made her want to question his motives, but she just smiled with him, enjoying his glittering, warm gaze and the tiny, betraying curve on his lips.

The black in front of her became a huge canvas. Her imagination drew the shapes. Various creations of transformative shapes and sizes. Giant birds and then giant insects. Which would have been inconsistent and annoying. Why there would be car-sized midges in lieu of the original, smaller versions which barely existed on this island in the first place, would have been frustratingly ironic. Not to mention ridiculous.

Irrational fear flickered as she looked anyway, straining her eyes and knowing there was nothing but unable to help herself. Eventually she just accepted that if she was about to be eaten by a giant moth, there was probably nothing she could do about it. In any case, there was only one thing she was afraid of now. And it was far from replicant of phantom insects and fictitious monsters.

The house behind her was lit only from the living room, the soft light spilling out onto the grass but diminishing as it reached her position. Her slow steps inevitably brought her to the perimeter fence. Her fingertips pressed into the wooden railing and she peered over the edge. Another expanse of nothing. Although the perspective from the house implied a sheer and unimpeded drop, the reality was more of a gradual slope to the sea. If willing, she probably could have climbed down entirely under the light of the sun. A slightly precarious journey, but not impossible. Not that she would have. The point of doing it was a little beyond her comprehension.

Clara strained her ears. Maybe she could hear the waves. A gentle lapping on cragged rocks. Difficult to tell. The smell of the sea lingered in the air, a briny potency she could almost taste.

Minutes passed. Her body began a firm recommendation to make a hasty retreat inside. Clara had never liked being cold. Not that it was some revelatory opinion—most people preferred existing in a more pleasantly temperate environment. Yet in the absence of the middle ground called _warmth,_ she favoured cold over hot, finding excessive heat would blur her head, subjecting her to a restless and impatient state.

In the cold, the opposite came into effect. The temperature forced a particular type of focus, simplifying her mind into the basic necessities to function within compromising surrounds. Racing thoughts slowed. Emotion irrelevant to preservation was wiped away—confusion, uncertainty, malaise. In her chest, the steady beat of her heart decelerated and her lungs required less of the freezing air to be drawn in. While her body began a slow plea to be placed somewhere else, her mood and impulses lessened, streamlining her mind into something more efficient and useful. She merely had to surrender to the new state, accept that she couldn't control the pernicious effects, and so appeared a certain clarity and capability for rationality.

In some ways, the encasing numbness felt good, a deep relief from the consuming nature of grief. But those were dangerous thoughts and she had already been gratuitously accused of nihilism this evening. She shoved them aside. Hard.

It took thirty minutes. Time was somewhat evasive, but her estimate seemed somewhat reasonable. Thirty minutes or thereabouts to finally formulate what the problem was. In subsequent order, she went through every day she had spent with John since the wedding and took into account exactly what she had said and done to him within those two weeks.

A gradual realisation filtered through her mind. Not an instant rush, but a slow understanding as the creeping sensation in the back of her skull maneuvered its way around to the forefront. Once reaching a conclusive theory, Clara swore aloud and banged her fist into the railing, regretting it when pain flashed up to her wrist, but then feeling it wasn't punishment enough for stupidity and selfishness.

All of this, now, was absolutely her fault. It wasn't a self-disparaging conclusion, but simply pure, cold hard fact. She had fucked up. Accidentally, but she had still done an excellent job to bring about the cause of the evening's events. And it was a simple reason, of course. In another situation, with another person, she probably would have caught herself doing it immediately. This wasn't her standard operation.

Contradicting herself was something Clara usually spent a lot of time being well aware of. She supposed the consequences of inconsistency varied depending on what she was doing, and usually only brought about mild amusement about her own hypocrisy, or absent consideration in that she could preach one thing but act on an other.

 _This_ type of contradiction, however, was always going to have adverse effects beyond herself. She cursed again and watched what she could see of the remaining heat in her breath rush out in front of her, blinking away a slight blur in her vision.

Quite literally, on a balcony in London and probably within in a space ranging somewhere between half a second and one second, she had told him they needed to be friends, and then kissed him. Maybe she could have gotten away with that instance of opposing statement and action—some final, closing sentiment to show him how she had felt about him in a tumultuous fortnight of events. But to consistently swing between what was generally considered to define _friends_ and _not friends_ was certainly a problem. Everything she was saying to him was absolutely contradicting her actions. Their week of hiatus had ended in her invitation for him to stay overnight—a clear breach of what had been decided on that balcony, and purposely reinstated later, after, before departing separately to spend time apart.

Night One on Skye had resulted in her getting into his bed, telling him that _friends don't do this_ and then sleeping in his arms, only to pretend in the morning like that was something inconsequential and to be ignored. She'd asked him about the women he'd slept with and then insisted she had no interest in the matter. Insisted that they needed to be friends and then proceeded to accuse him of wrongdoing—that not being there in the morning was somehow a problem of his. In the last five days, she must have been flirting with him, even unconsciously. Curled up in his arms on the couch for half the day after telling him he was making her emotionally overwhelmed and making her worse. Participated in bedroom activities, only to tell him it was mistake. Proceeded a minute later—

 _If we were going to sleep together, John, we really, definitely, absolutely, do not need your precautionary methods._

There must have been discrepancies in his own behaviour, but all the rest, that was ninety nine percent on her. Newspaper headlines, as he had been so kind to remind her, were useless in their situation. Yet she'd latched onto third-party dissociation with naivety and delusion, insisting this was the simple option because no one entered into a relationship two months after the death of their boyfriend or five minutes out of a messy, public divorce.

She supposed she should have taken into account how her actual-normal-platonic friends had reacted to the aftermath of what had happened in the studio. Ianto had advised her to be slow. Amy had looked at her like she was fucking crazy when she had mentioned a platonic arrangement _._ Jack was sending John indiscreet pictures and no doubt talking about her like they were about to show up at a church and trade rings. Even Rory seemed to be freely participating in divorce makeover jokes. None of them had ever considered that she was going to be friends with John Smith. And none of them had insinuated in any way that her decision into what sort of relationship she was going to have with him had been a good idea. One of them should have told her. Because, clearly, she was far too self-involved and disorganised to have come to this conclusion by herself at an earlier, more useful time. They should have sat her down, handed her a cup of tea, given her grave and serious expressions and then explained exactly what was going to happen in very clear and comprehensible terms.

Unfortunately, the necessity of the Passive Boyfriend Committee—although well meaning—wasn't taking into account that she was capable of unintentionally making decisions that could be well placed into the _bad_ category.

Her phone was in her coat pocket. She was almost tempted to send a message to their group chat.

 _Don't let me make a decision on my own ever again._

Probably a little too ambiguous by itself.

 _Don't let me make a decision on my own ever again, you fucking idiots._

Still ambiguous, but more accurate at least. Clara sighed audibly and stared down at boots. She wasn't obstinate or incorrigible. Stubborn, yes, but that didn't mean she was incapable of accepting the input of another party, another person. Having someone correct and realign a decision wasn't some unfeasible notion.

Even so, whatever vagaries she had been subjecting John to, none of it was enough to warrant this evening's performance. She could only conclude that there was more. On his behalf, there was something else, some contributing factor as to why he had decided it was a good idea to act as he had at dinner. Her contradictions alone couldn't be enough to explain why he was reacting— _overreacting_ —as he was. He should have confronted her days ago.

Shivering, Clara grit her teeth, partly against the cold, and the rest in aversion to the situation. Handed the answer but had none of the workings to really prove it. Or—she'd found the liferaft but didn't know how to climb from the water. The thought made her eyes narrow. Definitely John's influence that she was inundated with disastrous transport metaphors—trains, motorbikes, boats… She resolved silently that she could probably conjure up something to do with an aeroplane next.

Her hand slipped into her pocket and clasped around her phone. She tapped a repetitive and absent finger over the screen, trying to concentrate on how the fuck she was supposed to deal with the next part of this mess.

Clara wasn't reliant on her friends for help. She'd often sat laughing with Amy, congratulating themselves on the fact they were independent and autonomous of each other, and that they weren't _those women_ —the type that came rushing the second one had a problem, with a finger hovering over a phone waiting to press dial at the first sign of drama and calamity. They laughed and then pointed out their hypocrisy, the continual self-awareness that perhaps they were a little too codependent at times, maybe that in all these years of reliance, they hadn't left enough space to breathe entirely without each other.

She might have been able to do this on her own. Maybe in another two hours she would have created a theory, connected all the dots and everything would have clicked perfectly into place and made sense. Or maybe it would be a week, and maybe a week was too long, and maybe two hours was too long.

The weight of the phone in her hand was almost uncomfortable. Amy wouldn't like this. _She_ didn't like this. It was… intrusive. Unsettling to the point where she could feel the idea gnawing on her conscience, evasive and distant but refusing to leave. On all fronts, it felt mostly like a breach of trust. All Clara would be doing was replicating what John had just subjected her to over dinner, a torrent of arbitrary assumptions and specious theories.

Yet she was reasonably certain her friend could provide her with the rest of the answers. Clara could already hear Amy's immediate response, the initial refusal and instant reluctance to engage in keyboard diagnosis and op-ed discussion.

 _If you haven't fucking noticed, Clara, I don't have a medical degree or a reclining couch in a central London office with soft colours and unassuming pot plants on every shelf._

Except Amy would know because this is what she did. As a job, as a journalist—she was literally on the front lines of the perversion of consumerism and capitalism. Without a doubt, it would be working in its full, obsessive swing, feeding like carrion on the man who had exposed himself in a vulnerable moment, intent to stick every label under the sun onto his forehead in a desperate attempt to define and determine so his actions would make sense, and he could be categorised into a box to be sold and treated accordingly.

Amy might have her self-aware aversions to the cause, and her own writing may have been laden with the underhands of a utopian future that destroyed all of that, but she was still participating, still engaging and reading and ultimately surrounded by a national news story that would force her to draw inferences and make her own conclusions.

All Clara would have to do was drag her back down to reality—remind her she didn't have a problem publicly slapping unhinged labels on whoever she thought was fucking up this week at Number 10, mention what sort of moral or ethical line she had been treading on while berating him on her birthday in the bar, play whatever selfish and grief-infused card she was entitled to—and Amy would have begrudgingly conceded, sharing in her bullet pointed and comprehensive flow chart of theoretical concepts and hypotheses.

 _What's wrong with John?_

The beginning of what was probably endless, difficult questions. Because the simple fact of the matter was, she had no idea where to start with him. The obscenely famous musician who hadn't shown a shred of emotion off a stage in his entire career—barring the most meticulous display of ascetic austerity—but dismantled himself on national radio. Who couldn't stand by himself in a crowd of people. Unreadable and indecipherable. Intent to ask unnecessary questions saturated with some guise of insecurity, only to later ripple with indisputable confidence and surety. Erratic and temperamental.

She didn't know how to help, didn't know if she would be able to understand it. Here, the source of any overwhelming response of emotion she felt towards him resided. The last eight weeks had stripped her of every ability to interpret what was happening around her in a clear and reasonable manner.

Sighing, Clara brought her hand from her pocket, leaving the phone where it was. It was the right decision. Probably. If he didn't want to tell her himself, then she didn't have a right to know.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the lingering temptation, she tried to force everything to do with John Smith from the forefront of her mind. Stiff limbs protesting, she crouched and pressed her palm flat into the ground. The day had been clear enough to allow the possibility of an overnight frost. Blades of partly frozen grass bent and succumbed to the crush. Hard and uncompromising and unthawed from weeks of frigid conditions, the soil accepted more of her weight without concession. She had been unusually fixated on the striking colours of the island in the last few days. The promised warmth and inevitable betrayal of her eyes as her other senses told her otherwise. She needed to go inside. She felt on edge, jittery, nervous.

Arising in an oddly disoriented state, Clara began wondering what it would feel like being eaten by a giant moth. A furry, prickly body and bulbous, black eyes rushing in her direction. Spear-like legs and a residue of powder from tiny scales billowing towards her as it flapped its giant, moth wings. She didn't quite know what their mouths looked like. Little darting tongues, perhaps. They weren't so bad when they were small. Not particularly appealing, but far from claiming trophy rights to the world's worst insect. And in any case, she was pretty sure they consumed only nectar and sap. Humans were probably incompatible with the digestive system. A giant, but friendly moth monster. Excellent.

This was an odd train— _aeroplane_ —of thought to be focusing on. But almost an apt distraction from the growing cycle of dismay she was slipping into. It was a naive trap, the illusion of getting better. Four days of relative peace, dreamless nights and calm days. It had happened before, a few moments that allowed for a shred of normalcy to take its hold, a small reprieve before the return of grief and distress. Yet she thought she might have been on a proper ascent this time. It was however, an illusion. She didn't feel better now. She felt worse. Her chest hurt. The well-acquainted smother that replicated the sensation of having—

Weight suddenly pressed into her, arms clamping around her shoulders and tilting her backwards.

Clara half yelped, half gasped in reflexive fright, instinctively yanking away from the unexpected shock of touch and presence. The restraint limited her movement.

"What are you doing with my cliff?"

 _John, John, it's John_ —

She spat a curse in both relief and anger, and then breathed out, her heart slamming hard into her ribs. For a moment the relief made her lean back into him until she realised the adrenalised and discomforting rush of fear and fright wasn't dispersing like it should have. It pulsed around her body, cutting into slow thought and disorientated emotion. He must have been looking for her. He can't have seen her from the living room window alone. It was too dark.

"Let me go," Clara murmured, twisting slightly in the restraint of his encircling arms.

He refused. If anything, he tightened his clasp.

"John," she stressed with growing resentment.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I said, _let me go,"_ she snarled, putting real conviction into her demand and pushing with proper intent to force him away.

Advancing again, he closed the fresh gap between them and pressed a palm into her cheek instead. She shied from his gauging hand and took a step backwards, wincing as her muscles and joints protested like a casing of ice was snapping from her limbs.

"Don't touch me."

The trace of heat he left on her skin didn't stand a chance in the encompassing cold. His touch burned and then evaporated, dispersing and transforming into frozen numbness.

"You can't be outside," John snapped, following her retreat and obviously uncaring of her instructions. "Why are you outside?"

"Admiring the view," she muttered with caustic severity, taking another step away. Her voice sounded small in the vastness of space.

"It's barely above zero, Clara."

"Well I think you made it pretty fucking clear you don't want me in your house."

The retaliation was slightly louder as she bit back. Unreasonable, yes, but she didn't seem to be in a particular mood to care about rational responses anymore. He was only a silhouette, a tall shadow shifting on cautious feet. She couldn't see his expression. It wasn't a difficult guess judging by his tone of voice. Another temperamental change. Short, sharp. Angry.

"I was not implying _this."_

"Thanks for all the sudden concern," she countered, running her tongue against her lips in attempt to provide some fleeting heat. "But it's a bit late for you to be worrying about me, don't you think?"

Silence spread between them. She could count the individual beats of her heart, the thudding adamant to begin relocating to her head and drum on an endless, incessant loop. The shock of his unexpected emergence still wasn't leaving her system. Her breath was short and inhibited. She tried to inhale properly, but the increase of air became knives cutting into raw and delicate skin. Focusing on something else suddenly seemed like an essential task.

"Where are the monsters?" Clara asked, her question bordering on having a confrontational edge.

John didn't reply. She could hear him breathing. Breath like hers, short and hampered from the cold.

"You said there were monsters out here. I've come to see them."

"Get away from the fence."

It was a strict, emphatic demand. Spoken in the sort of tone that made her want to instantly obey, an automatic compliance to something that could have come across as being posed as a reasonable and appropriate request. Yet the implication combined with blatant peremptory instruction stunned her slightly. Taken aback, she blinked, incredulous. "What?"

"You heard."

Her anger always seemed to be playing catch-up, trailing behind and then slamming hard through her system. It hit in a rush of fury, desperate and furious that it had been left unattended for so long. Public setting or not, this was how she should have felt earlier. She noticed her breath starting to catch properly while the heat of ire competed with the frozen shards of ice creeping through her blood.

"Fuck off," she snarled at him. Bitter, vicious words. She had never wanted to say that again. Not when she meant it. Yet here she was, breaking her own rules.

"Seriously," she continued, unable to stop a hostile and venomous reproach. "Stop projecting. Stop… stop turning this into something it's not. Stop overreacting to every single fucking thing that's presented in front of you."

It didn't matter she couldn't see his expression. Her imagination was good enough. Either he would be utterly expressionless, or she wouldn't be able to interpret his impassivity. Earlier, she'd had a sensible, calm response to his unjustified performance. Even in confusion her mind had felt clear and quietly composed. Not anymore.

"Get inside," John instructed, arm lifting and pointing towards the house.

She started to go blank with disgusted rage. He wasn't even listening. Or didn't care.

"This is beyond stupid, Clara. Stop being irrational."

"I'm not being irrational!"

A ringing in her ears told her that she had just yelled. The vehement outburst seemed to be effective enough to startle him into some sort of silence. It was too cold. Her voice broke. The following outpouring of rage lodged and trapped in her throat. Part of her felt like screaming at him, but she could only speak instead, her voice sounding fragile and bleak from her compromised condition.

"What's wrong with you?" she started, attempting to swallow down the bitterness. "Why are you treating me like this?"

His refusal to answer wasn't unexpected. She gave him a moment and then pressed on, letting accusation spill into her tone.

"We're not the same, you know. I'm _nothing_ like you. I'm not—not trying to tell you how to think and how to feel. I haven't been trying to hurt you on purpose. But that's what you're doing to me."

Clara heard her voice break again and she swallowed hard, breathing out frigid air.

"You don't explain anything. And you… you force me into positions where I can't contribute to what's happening. Exactly like you did at the studio. Tonight was just…" She was forced to trail off, disbelieving now in speech at how inane his actions were becoming.

"I made a mistake," she offered, blinking away the blur in her sight. "I've been very unclear about what I've wanted with you. I've been contradicting myself. It was stupid and unfair and I'm sorry. But I didn't… I _haven't_ been doing it on purpose. Do you understand that? I'm not intentionally playing games."

Another moment stretched between them, another opportunity for him to reply and answer with something that hinted at more than a complete non-response. He refused, keeping quiet.

"Whatever _this_ is—" Clara had to stop again, not really knowing how to elaborate on the manner in which he was conducting himself. She was finding it difficult to speak. Her words were punctuated with pause as the pressure on her chest increased. "Whatever is going on with you, I don't understand. So I'm not going to ask for it anymore. You don't owe me an explanation for whatever the fuck you were thinking doing that to me at dinner. You don't owe me anything, actually. If you don't want me here—fine. I'm not going to force my presence upon you."

Her eyes felt like they were burning, an odd contrast to the encircling numbness. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear what vision she had left, not wanting this sort of thing to happen either. Her interests in this conversation were rapidly depleting.

"Stop trying to control me," she finished, swallowing hard and physically starting to move away. "And stop telling me what to do. I'm not interested. Find someone else to unleash your fucking problems on."

The last of that felt very irresponsible and unfair, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter. She was beginning to have an entirely different problem. Preemptive fear buzzed at the back of her mind. It tapped against her like a needy child wanting urgent attention. The fence pressed into her spine and she placed a hand around the railing. The rough wood dug tiny splinters into her palm. Trembling, Clara turned around, fervently wishing she hadn't come outside. It was too cold. It had been too cold before. She wanted to go home. Her mind began trying to slowly work through the more technical aspects of actually achieving the task, but she noted blandly that she was stuck on the first stage of just actually being able to walk more than a few steps.

"Clara." John touched her shoulder, brief and fleeting like he was simply ensuring he had her attention, his voice suddenly devoid of aggravation. "Clara."

He was telling her something important. Or trying to. But none of this felt remotely significant anymore. She couldn't focus. Snapped out of a partly meditative state, the cold was now crippling her properly, removing her ability to think coherently. Her vision blurred entirely and her perception narrowed. The wooden railing felt as if it was freezing through her palm. Her hand became a conductor of cold that threaded up her arm and into her chest, leaving slivers of ice that seared her lungs as she breathed in. She wanted to lift her fingers away, but they wouldn't open. Transfixed, she imagined her knuckles turning white. Every vain running beneath her skin becoming little blue tracks of frozen life.

"Great," she managed to mutter absently through her teeth, either some distant response to John's elusive words, or grim and sardonic acknowledgement to what was about to happen.

She felt like she was going to faint. Which was completely absurd. She was reasonably certain she had never fainted in her life, so wasn't sure why she thought it was suddenly about to occur. And if knowing in advance was even possible. No one was supposed to faint. This sort of behaviour was contradicting all her ideas about rational superiority. But gravity had its own unaccountable suggestions and seemed to pull at her mercilessly, its crushing weight pressing like a slow vice, adamant to force her down and be submitted to. A wave of nausea made a sweeping pass.

It was probably just a standard reaction to something somatic. Not drinking enough water. Or not eating properly. Lack of sleep.

Grimly cynical, her ever logical mind rejected the lie. Denial. Delusion. This had really turned into a fucking terrible evening. The last time this had happened, she'd curled up on her bed and hadn't moved for twelve hours.

Reality was blurring. Inconvenient. She shouldn't have come outside into the dark. Raising a trembling hand, she guided numb fingers to rest upon the side of head to check. Matted blood stuck to her hair. She was suddenly glad it was dark. It felt overly important not to let him see any of this.

It hurt. A physical, jarring pain as the torrential outpouring of guilt and blame crushed violently into her. She couldn't stop it, couldn't do anything but let it consume her like she had been reduced to a tiny, single particle in the path of a tidal wave. Her eyes closed and she bit down hard into her tongue, flailing blindly amongst the sudden flood, searching for anything, anything that she could grasp for relief. No one had bothered to build an escape route. Awful planning.

Her muscles weakened. White noise flickered and then held in a steady drone. The sound felt deep and heavy inside her skull. Clara moved her unimpeded hand and pressed it to her mouth, wiping blood from her lips. That was certainly real. The metallic and bitter sting of ferrous red and salt. She could feel the fleeting heat of it on her skin. Blood needed to stay strictly to its designated pathways. Her first knee pressed into the hardened ground, a palm following in support as her muscles gave way.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," she mumbled quietly on repeat when urgent hands pressed into her shoulders. Saying the words was easy. Continuing with the pretence was the difficult part.


	14. A High Contender For The Title

**Chapter 14: A High Contender For The Title**

* * *

"Must be a dire situation if two adults are sitting fully clothed in a shower," Clara stated in the most coherent way she could manage. She suspected a slight slur partnering her words.

The only thing seemingly positive about the dire situation was that she hadn't fainted or passed out. Feeling rather pleased in an overly smug way about her impressive resistance to a state of unconsciousness, she enjoyed the victory until realising that based on her body's almost complete failure to obey motor commands, she might as well have.

John had stripped her of her coat but didn't bother with anything else, just set her down on a hard surface and then began some sort of desperate and rushed assessment on her, mumbling to himself as he did so. She hadn't made out a word of his incoherent rambling until he seemed to come to the conclusion that saying her name on repeat was somehow the right approach.

A torrent of water took her entire focus away from his attention.

 _Heat._

Her face and fingers stung with pain as they adjusted to the new environment. She gritted her teeth but shortly forgot the discomfort, welcoming the burn instead as it scoured through her blood and seared frozen nerves with life. The tension in her muscles eased and soaked in immediate relief.

John was talking. Louder and with more insistence. Clara supposed she could possibly spare him a moment of her time before returning to the blissful state of all-encompassing heat. She decided against it and instead drifted in the comforting weight of the torrential waterfall, running languorously through the potential compliments she could personally deliver to whoever had invented on-demand hot water, before realising her fantasies of gratitude were being interrupted by the urgent growl of a Scottish accent and persisting touch.

"How—how cold are you?" Frantic hands pressed into her cheeks, over her chest and then around her wrists. "I can't, can't tell. I don't know how to tell."

For a short moment, she allowed her eyes to crack open, bringing the man in front of her somewhat into focus and then sending her gaze down to the tiles. "Water's red," she criticized in an accusatory grumble, like it was somehow his fault.

"Clara," he stressed in a way that indicated he really was trying to get her attention and not just intent to continue reminding her what had been written on her birth certificate.

"Not cold enough to forget that I told you to fuck off." Half-heartedly, she attempted to bat his hands away. Her motor-skills were returning. That seemed positive.

John ignored her and continued his anxious inspection. This was the precipice of panic. He was about to do something stupid, like call a helicopter or get a hospital couriered to the front door. Even the shower was an overreaction. He could have just put her in front of the fire and not ruined her dry-clean-only jumper.

"Calm down," she muttered, annoyed. "I wasn't out swimming in fucking glacier water."

Clara started to wonder if her moods were just as temperamental as his. She was slurring again. The heat was making her hazy with some sort of contented pleasure and had generously allowed a moment of suspension in her distress, a distraction or temporary respite. The constricting crush on her chest was weakening. She needed to tell him anyway. If only so he would stop fussing. It was annoying.

"I'm not cold. I'm sick. This is third-party affliction."

The insinuation was enough. Cautious and tentative, his hands paused on her skin. "Sick?"

"Yeah, sick," she affirmed, irritated at his slow comprehension and languidly pushing away the hands resting on her arm and shoulder. She would have snapped at him if she could have summoned the energy. "Although if we have to live on this stupid empty rock island, our baby science nerds better inherit your thermoregulation advantage."

Apparently her default setting for dealing with this was going to be a facetious, demanding attitude. It would have amused her if she had been more alert. Clara blinked her eyes open, squinting in the bright light. All of his hair was plastered to his head, the long curls extending and making a good attempt to creep into his eyes. A hand pushed the dark strands quickly from his forehead. He was knelt in front of her, just as wet as she was. Fingers undoing the laces on her saturated footwear. She watched the water dart onto the curve of his neck like tiny knives attempting to break the skin. Clasping his hand around her ankles, he discarded of her boots and socks somewhere past the glass and then tilted his head, avoiding the stream of water. Eyes darting over her face, his hand bunched into the waist of her jumper and clenched into a fist.

"Really elaborate plan to take off my clothes," she said wryly as she noted his intentions. Pressing her head back into the wall, she closed her eyes before she could properly focus on anything else. "Could've just asked. And I preferred last night's methods, if I had to compare. Less ill-informed accusations and indeterminate crying."

That seemed a little cruel. It also seemed to be the case that she didn't care about potential consequences anymore.

"Why didn't you just take me straight to your bedroom? Show me the type of sex you would rather be having. I'm pretty interested to know what you're like when everything's about you."

"Shut up, Clara," he murmured, probably rightfully so.

"You shut up," she returned, noticing she was beginning to regain proper coherency of thought. "That's how you wanted to spend the evening."

She was just unnecessarily goading him now, testing for further reaction, pushing a line. Sensibly, he didn't reply.

Heeding prior suggestion, Clara began attempting to shed outer clothes. A pointless task on her own, her limbs were leaden and weak. She struggled with the jumper and he simply offered unspoken assistance, lifting her arms in the right direction and pulling until she was free of the heavy knit.

"I told you not to touch me."

The instant his hands were gone, she missed them. Which annoyed her even further.

"Like that I bite back? Pretty sure you do. Bit of a challenge. Keeps you entertained for awhile." She fixed her gaze on him and captured his eyes, refusing to look away. "There's something rewarding about getting someone stubborn to eventually submit."

She breathed out and continued staring, daring him to retaliate.

"Well," she said quietly when he failed again to be provoked. "You win. You won. Like you were always going to. I don't know how to fight you."

A tiny hint of bitterness lingered in her tone, but it fast turned into simple defeat. "I'm pretty annoyed you're breaking up with me, to be honest. If we can call it that. I usually do this part. I should have just… forgiven you at the wedding and then told you to fuck off. Like you suggested."

He dropped his eyes to stare somewhere at her shoulder, watching water drench into her clothes.

"A clean cut," she murmured absently. "We had our two weeks, and then… we should've known. Right? That this would be unrealistic. That there's too many contributing factors that will keep making this impossible. You just came to that conclusion before me?"

It was rhetorical, a statement more than a question. He didn't answer and she wasn't sure she really wanted a response. She didn't want answers to anything she was posing as a question. John turned his face into the water so he was forced to close his eyes.

"I'm not sure I'm going to get away with it, either. It's going to hurt."

She shouldn't have been telling him this. It was beyond anything she'd even properly admitted to herself, but her mouth didn't seem to really care. Her eyes ran over his forearms, sleeves rolled up to expose pale skin. Droplets clung to his jumper before the intensity became overwhelming and they seeped victoriously into the tight thread.

Taking a deep breath, Clara pushed back into the wall and ground her teeth together, feeling like the muscles in her jaw were about to seize up. One side of her tongue felt tender and sore from the bite she had accidentally inflicted upon herself, although the taste of blood had mercifully gone.

"You need to turn off the light now," she instructed quietly, dropping her hand to let the streaming rivulets divert and break around her fingers. "The water's red. See? Can you see that?"

Of course he couldn't. He didn't understand, eyes flickering to the tiles and then back to her, darting and unsure.

"I'm having a little bit of trouble moving." Glancing up to the overhead insets, she blinked as they seared in her vision and created bright spots. "Can you please? Doesn't have to be all the lights," she reasoned, pressing hard on his knee with her palm. "Just make it darker."

Without questioning, he shifted, arising with ease to his feet. Clara squinted at him through blurry eyes. His tall form left a dripping trail across the room. Realising his own hindrance of saturated clothing, John paused and peeled off his jumper, face contorting to a grimace before he dropped it carelessly onto the floor. A white t-shirt clung to his body, transparent and sticking like another layer of skin to his lean frame. He shed that as well, discarding it without thought. He kicked off his boots and then flicked the switches on the wall, leaving only the lights over the mirror to emit a dim illuminance.

A shroud of darkness cloaked around her and Clara found herself breathing a sigh of relief. Docile, she shut her eyes and tried to relax as the demanding apprehension ebbed quietly from her body, washing away with the water.

Fingertips pressed gently into her shoulders.

"I don't want you to stay," she mumbled, loud enough for him to hear. "We're broken up."

Maybe it was a pointless request. John took no notice of her words. He ignored her instead, or simply just knew she was lying. Whatever it was, he didn't bother with an audible reply. Shifting her away from the wall, Clara felt his weight press into her back, legs coming to rest on either side of her. He pulled her into his chest and circled his arms around her waist, fingers digging into her sides. It was an odd sensation, having someone deliver both extreme comfort and impending distress at the same time.

Hot tears prickled and burned in her eyes. She fought them back before they could form properly, willing anger to ease hurt, yet finding nothing of use. Suspended in defeat, her hand curled around his knee and she pulled on his jeans to draw up his leg, requesting it to bend. She tipped forward as he conceded and pushed her forehead against his thigh. The heat helped, lulling her into a further state of relaxation. The fingers on his left hand moved in miniscule strokes across her ribs.

"Jack took me home afterwards," she swallowed, speaking without emotion against the soaked material. "I sat in the shower like this, with my clothes on. It made the water go red for a bit. I think I must have been in there too long, because he started knocking. I wanted to answer but I couldn't speak, or… move, I don't think. He put his shoulder through the door in the end. Or his foot." She blinked away the tiny jets of spray attaching to her eyelashes. "Broke the lock. He, ah… stared at me in this really helpless way. And then knelt down and undressed me. Like I was a child."

Clara paused, trying to recall a blurry chain of events. "All his clothes were wet. He… washed my hair and told me a story about something. I don't remember. Amy and Rory were downstairs suddenly. They were very pale. They're both already very pale. But more than usual. And then… Jack had to leave. He had to go and tell Ianto. Tell Ianto his best friend was dead because of me."

"Clara," John murmured. It was almost like a quiet reprimand.

"Just how I felt," she mumbled, mouth against jeans.

He unhooked one of his arms and pressed his hand over her shoulder. Carefully, like he was prepared for and cautious of another dismissive response, he brushed her hair to one side and stroked the back of her neck, letting his fingers and thumb soothe the tension lingering in her muscles. Combined with the heat, the pleasure of gentle caress was largely consuming.

"You know that feeling when someone hugs you," Clara started after awhile, finding herself succumbing completely to his alleviating touch. "Not, not when you're standing. You have to be lying down. When you do that for the first time with someone? Their body feels new and different. They smell different and you don't know how they rest, how they like to sleep, or what their breathing will sound like against you. You don't… don't really do that with a friend. But Ianto held me like that. I remember feeling that difference. That I didn't know him in such an intimate way. He cried and I was just… numb."

Her mouth and thoughts seemed to be a little on autopilot. Lifting her forehead from his leg, she pressed back into him, turning her head to rest on his shoulder, wanting to be closer. His skin was hot. Arms slid to tighten around her chest and he lowered his chin into her neck. Water caressed her front and the last of the tension diminished from her body with the suffusion of continual heat.

"I went back to work ten days later. Jack and Amy started fighting once I did that. They were shadowing everything I did. I didn't like it. I think Ianto must have told them to leave me alone because they both turned on him. That's a little bit of an incomprehensible approach for Jack. And Amy's always been so… protective, I suppose. So the first time we were all together again since the funeral was on my birthday. With you. At the bar. Which didn't go very well."

Frowning, Clara breathed out in confusion. "What was the point of this story?" she murmured to herself, sifting through her absent words, trying to remember. "Oh. Water. I can only shower in the dark now. With the light off. So I don't see blood. It's quite inconvenient. I keep knocking into the counter at home."

She put her fingers into the streaming water beside them. "I know it's not there," she assured, not wanting to sound completely crazy. "But my head still seems to think it is. Bit annoying. I start panicking. I feel really hot and really cold at the same time. And it gets hard to breathe properly."

She tapped the back of her head softly against his shoulder. "I would be okay, I think, if I hadn't seen it happen. I wouldn't be like this. My imagination would never be as bad as the reality. And I'd… I would have more perspective on how to recover. But it's made me go… weird. I can't—can't see a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. Whoever it is in the psycho family I'm supposed to visit. It's not because of some lingering animosity I've had since I was a kid because of mum. It's because of the woman who was driving the car."

Words caught in her throat. She swallowed and took a small breath before continuing. "She had very blue eyes. I think I told you that before. My nightmares are about her. Not so much about Danny. Sometimes I'm her, or she's Dan, or she's just everyone. Endless combinations. I've got excellent unconscious creativity skills for making myself even more traumatised."

Clara grit her teeth and twisted slightly in his arms, trying to be closer again. His grip tightened around her.

"She, ah… I can't even imagine what it must've been like seeing all the stuff about Dan in the papers. If she saw it. And whatever she's been exposed to after what we did on the radio. It's irrational but I'm so—" She had to stop again, blinking and clearing her throat. "Quite terrified of her. That they'll tell me the only way to fix this is to… make me go and see her. I don't think I could do that. Because I wrecked her life."

Letting her breath escape slowly, Clara fell silent, listening to the rush of water hit the tiles and stream away. To her slight surprise, she felt marginally better having said that out loud. Not that it was any sort of secret, she just didn't want to talk about it.

"I do know it's not my fault," she clarified quietly. "I'm not stupid. It just feels like it is. It's probably going to be fine. Just early still. So it's worse. But I'll be fine later."

She wasn't sure if she was reassuring him or herself.

"John," she murmured, tilting her head so he had a greater chance of hearing her low words. "You're hugging me a little tight now."

The pressure around her chest released instantly. "Sorry," came a tiny, mumbled whisper in her ear.

Clara pressed into him and closed her eyes, gradually syncing her breath with the slow rise and fall of his chest. Everything had become suddenly peaceful. Time blurred and then seemed to stop entirely. John rested his head against hers and ran gentle and tiny repetitive lines on her upper arms. The water sounded like heavy rain.

When she realised she could have stayed in this position with him for an indefinite amount of time, she forced herself to move. Carefully, not entirely trusting tenuous muscles, Clara pulled herself from his embrace. For a fraction of a second, he resisted her request. It felt instinctual, like he didn't want to let her go, or was surprised she was trying to shift. He conceded as she continued the pull and dropped his arms to his sides, resting hands in the water. Lifting her legs to one side, she twisted to face him directly. The low light made it difficult to see his expression, but she could just make out his obscured features, dark eyed and grave.

"I need to… say some things to you," she murmured, blinking away the droplets still trying to make contact with her eyes. "And I need to do it now because it'll be different in the morning and I probably won't be able to."

Clara swallowed, hardening her tone with resolve. "I'm going to subject you to what you did to me tonight at dinner. I would usually… never be so blatant like this. But you deserve some hard truths. And I want you to know what this feels like because I don't think anyone has ever properly told you."

John stared at her. His expression was mostly concealed, but if there was anything to deduce in the dark, he looked especially defeated. He pulled a knee up to his chest, ducking his head. Assuming he wouldn't give her a verbal response, Clara waited until he conceded a tiny nod to indicate that he was both listening and probably accepting his fate. She sighed slightly and let herself transform complicated thought into simple and plausibly inadequate words.

"I, ah… meet—I meet people like you all the time. At the studio. People… artists who have been propelled into fame and attention, either by their own doing or have fallen more accidentally into it. I always have preconceived notions. It's impossible not to. Generally, everyone is pretty much exactly how I expect."

Her voice was soft and low, only just loud enough to be heard over the rushing water. "I guess I assumed you were going to be… difficult. Arrogant. Presumptuous. And you were, and you are. But you're just… you've, um… completely taken me by surprise. Caught me off-guard. And I haven't been… surprised like this. In a long time. Maybe ever."

John raised his head. She hoped he was listening properly. He was looking at her, but she couldn't determine his cognizance in the dark.

"I don't share your romanticisms," she told him quietly, absently pressing fingers into his leg. "For understanding a person, for knowing them without time or conversation. I think I might understand some of the theory, but I'm a little more—or at least like to think I am—more pragmatic and practical than that.

"John, I think you're incredible. Like, properly, truly incredible. You are… unbelievably kind. In a way that you're completely unaware of. If you—if you do something selfless, you don't notice. You do all these little gestures and it's sort of…" She breathed out, shaking her head slightly. "I really don't think you even know you're doing them. When you make me tea, you put the cup beside my right hand. Consistently."

She took a quiet breath and exhaled again, directing her words into the dark. "Every time we go outside, you seem to complete this checklist on me with your eyes. Hat, scarf, gloves. In case I've forgotten. When you're driving and we switch, you adjust the seat for me before you even get out. You put books you think I'll like into one section on the bookcase. And you've… you've offered to cook every meal for me. Which isn't some minor proposal. Just in itself is… it's so kind. But you ruined dinner the other night. And then insisted to make it all over again, like it was nothing. You didn't have to. You didn't need to do that and you just… did."

Clara swallowed and pushed the base of her hand into her left eye, resisting the growing impulses. "I have so many examples. It's beyond considerate. Considerate in this… staggering sort of way. I find it difficult to comprehend.

"I still don't actually know how you think an unspecified quantity could warrant adding half a box of cayenne pepper," she added, tipping her head. "But that's irrelevant, I guess."

She dragged her hand away from her face, feeling slightly strange. "On Friday, when you dragged me up that stupid hill-slash-death-mountain? That was the best day I've had in… I can't even remember. More than just the last two months. All year. You're, ah… you might have to control your ego on this. But you're so funny. I mean…" She couldn't help the small smile adamant to touch her lips. "You really know how to make me laugh. Properly. You're the sort of man who sets an impossible standard for anyone else to reach. I'd always be comparing. Which is silly and frustrating, but unavoidable.

"Loyal, to the people you love. Protective. Generous. And you don't expect people to thank you. For anything. When I'm telling you something—with minor exception—I always feel like… l guess it's like you're giving me your entirety of attention. That what I'm saying is important, or you want to be listening. I don't think many people are like that."

She was adverse to over-indulgent sentiment, and yet somewhere in the back of her hazy state of mind, she had an inkling she was barely even scraping the surface of articulating her opinion of him. She crushed it down. Unhelpful perception.

"I just think that what's happening now is…" Clara trailed off, trying to keep her voice steady and clearing her throat. "You've never learned to ask for help. And I guess I'm not… Well, I'm not exactly the best person to be leading by example. But I hope you… can. Find someone. If it can't be me. Because I think I might have you now in an untested state. Since meeting you and since what happened in the studio. Everything's new and different and… there's got a lot going on."

His head dipped again and pressed into his knee, hiding what she could make out of his expression.

"John, I'm—I'm so… I'm so sorry for how contradicting I've been. I can understand if it's felt like I've been messing you around. I really didn't mean to. And it's—it's affected you in a way I don't understand. Maybe you don't know how to explain and I'm pushing into territory I can't have. That's okay. Definitely."

Lifting her hand to touch his shoulder, she breathed out in a slow exhale, whispering. "You know I wouldn't…"

This was important. Her fingertips pressed gently into his temple to insinuate and she leant forward to be close to his ear. "Nothing here could _ever_ change my opinion of you. I wouldn't think of you in any lesser way, or want to change you or think I had to fix you. I don't know if I have to tell you that. If it's obvious or not. But if you didn't know… well, now you do."

He didn't move or respond, so she brushed her fingers through his wet hair and stayed close, giving him some time to process before she continued, soft but imperative.

"You're like the sun. I don't really know what that means. But you are. Warm and—" She dropped her hand and waved her fingers over him in an ambiguous motion, frowning slightly. "Light. Like light. I meant it when I said you're probably the best person I've ever met. Anyone willing to sit in a shower with their clothes on with me is a high contender for the title."

She tilted forward and pressed her forehead gently into the side of his. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

"That's it," she murmured, leaning back, trying to sound conclusive and off-hand. "I'm done. Mainly because I'm starting to sound like the midsection of a soap opera. And, I've pretty much been doing all the work in our conversation since dinner."

Clara took her hands off him and wiped away the hair sticking to her forehead. "No ulterior motive," she promised, wanting to make that entirely clear, as well as being a little concerned while he forfeited the right to draw air into his lungs. "I'm not trying to get you to change your mind. I just want you to know. You should know that. That's the sort of person you are.

"I should be—" Pausing, she quickly assessed her condition. She wasn't entirely sure, but the shock of heat and water had seemingly done a good job to at least temporarily relieve her of the worst of the immediate affliction. "Should be fine after sleep. From this. Gets a bit worse when I'm stressed.

"Logistics in the morning, I suppose," she finished quietly, blinking. "My favourite method of transportation happens to be private, luxury jet. By the way. Just so you know."

Her audience wasn't exactly in the right state of mind for humour. Not that she was expecting to suddenly get any sort of response. Clara thought she might have momentarily broken him, given him a little bit too much to deal with. Compliment overload. She reasoned that she probably would have felt the same in an opposite scenario. The possibility he couldn't entirely process the complete change in her approach and manner also crossed her mind, just as she struggled with his temperamental moods.

"Getting out now," she murmured. "We're just wasting water."

Achieving the actual task was more difficult than it should have been. Her muscles were weak and heavy, trembling as they tried to adjust to the weight she was forcing upon them, using the wall to haul herself upright. Water-logged clothes stuck to her skin and tried to drag her down as she took a careful step out of the shower. She shut the stream of heat off, not wanting John to have any incentive to remain where he was. Unsteady on her feet, Clara stood over the sink, bracing herself with one hand on the counter and slowly brushed her teeth, watching him from the corner of her eye. He stayed in the shower, unmoving with one hand propped on his knees and shielding across his eyes.

An intermittent tremble lingered in her hands. She struggled with the buttons on her shirt as she stripped from her outer layers of clothing, uncaring that she wasn't alone. The wooden floor was cold against her bare feet in the hallway. She made her way carefully into her bedroom, dressing in a t-shirt and then drying her hair with a towel.

The lamp cast the room into a yellow softness. Her body was insisting on sleep, a gentle tug to lie down and succumb to the unconscious realms, a quiet promise to wipe away fatigue and stress. It _might_ have been a trap. Another alluring call into the dark and she would get to relive some awful scenario, no doubt having to later return to the bathroom to waste more water washing away illusionary red.

She sighed at the probable reality and then felt like crying. About everything. Instead, she clamped her teeth together and sat on the edge of the bed, ardently attempting to resist the lingering urge. She wanted Amy. Amy would have hugged her and then made some stupid, inappropriate joke, and then she would have felt better for a little while. Her eyes burned and then glazed over. Helpless, she pressed fingers into her forehead and sent desperate orders to her body, demanding compliance. It didn't quite work. She felt the fractures dart and crack like glass; conceivably becoming more distressed by her fragile reaction than the actual source of crisis.

A knock on the door interrupted her private moment and opened before she had time to reply—which probably wasn't the best of etiquette—but that was far from the most pressing issue. John stepped into the room as she ducked her head and wiped quickly at her cheeks.

"Drew you a picture before," he mumbled, holding out a piece of paper for her to take before she could say anything.

He was dressed as she was, pants and t-shirt, hair in a mess from his towel. Clara took it from his fingers and gave it her attention, blinking as she slowly processed what she was looking at.

"This is… weird, John," she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady. "Why's she wearing a crown?"

Clara put her index finger over the elevated and familiar looking flat-faced cat surrounded by a hoard of attentively gazing feline faces. John took a seat beside her, close enough so that their legs were touching. His skin was warm. He put his index finger into the paper, tracing over the fixated crowd.

"She's established a new monarchy," he explained in a low voice, clearing his throat. "These are her new subjects. There's actually forty nine if you count." His tapped a few of the subjects and then stilled. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," Clara assured through a watery smile. "Very much. Long live the King."

John stared blankly at his drawing. His fingers slid from the paper. Slowly, carefully, he dropped them to her waist, covering her hand with his own. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into his shoulder, helpless. He should have been in his own room with the door shut, leaving her alone. He was making this unnecessarily difficult. She couldn't understand how it was possible to want him so much. She wanted his arms around her, to have quiet assurances murmured in her ear and soft hands caressing her into dreamless sleep.

Clearing his throat, John spoke only because he probably needed an excuse to remain where he was without giving an explanation. "Wouldn't—wouldn't she be Queen Margaret?"

Clara dragged herself away from disruptive thoughts. "Ah… yeah. Yes. Guess so." She swallowed and had to wipe again at her cheeks. She absolutely would have preferred him not to be seeing her like this.

"The definition sort of changed over time," she mused absently, staring at the detailed lines and rough pencil shading. She wasn't sure Margaret Thatcher would be very particular about having the added weight of metal sitting on her head. It seemed inconvenient.

"Queen… that originated from Old English _cwēn._ Which means 'wife of the king'. And the Latin translation for king is _rēx_ , which means ruler. So king wasn't originally a gendered word. Men just got it by default because women couldn't succeed or claim the throne."

She was just elaborating to distract herself. He probably already knew this. "And I guess… guess 'king' was assumed to be, again by default, a masculine title rather than being male. Leading armies… stabbing people…" She stopped and glanced up. "What else do males like attributing themselves with?"

"Punching triffids," he offered quietly.

"Mmm. Right." A tiny smile flickered automatically on her lips before she turned away. "Definitely couldn't have had a female leading the war against the triffids," she said slowly, shaking her head and flattening her voice. "That's just… completely incomprehensible."

John smiled carefully as she watched him from the corner of her eye, and she put a little more emphasis in her tone.

"See—if Matilda hadn't been fucked over by the _superior_ gender's hypocrisy, she would have been England's first and rightful female king. And that was nine hundred years ago. So fuck you."

He blinked and put a finger into his chest. "Me… personally?"

"Yeah," she confirmed, nodding. "You and all the other males."

"Can I be excluded because I'm Scottish?"

"No."

He ducked his head with another tiny smile and tightened the grip over her hand, pressing his thumb against hers.

"So, technically," Clara continued, attempting to focus elsewhere, "fast forward a bit, and I suppose our first female ruling monarch could have called herself King Mary." Her lips curved slightly at the thought, and she brushed the back of her free hand over her eyes. "But 'queen' became the female equivalent for ruler instead."

"I haven't really thought about that properly before."

She shrugged and set the drawing carefully on the bedside table. "It's all a bit sexist. In both directions. But it's rather fascinating. There's always legislation in attempt for change going through parliament."

"I've got a quick fix," John murmured. "Getting rid of the monarchy completely."

"I bet you only want that because you grew up Catholic," she accused, taking a shaky breath and nudging his leg with hers. "The line of succession ended with King Mary. She's your hero. She's the only Tudor you like. The one true king. You worship the ground she walked on."

"Burn them all," he murmured under his breath and raising a fist with new found royalism. "Long live the King."

Clara exhaled amusement and failed to stop the pressing of a more sincere, if watery, smile. John ran his free hand back and forward on his thigh and then trapped it between his knees, looking silently down at the floor.

His presence here confused her, yet she was almost certain he had no intention of leaving. Perhaps it was simply unfeasible that he would be able to leave her alone while she was like this. If she went to sleep, he would probably just sit there unless instructed otherwise. Tomorrow morning suddenly seemed like a very long way away.

"John?"

He glanced up and met her gaze. He had such beautiful eyes. She should have told him that as well. They were dark and wet now, glistening in the yellow haze from the lamp.

"I'm going to kiss you," she informed him quietly, hearing herself say the words from a distant perspective, as if she had been dragged slightly from her body. "If you're adverse to the idea, you've got about ten seconds to stop me."

His mouth parted with a surprise he clearly tried to instantly suppress. "Ten—ten seconds is quite a long time," he replied, blinking like he was discovering he had vision.

"Mmm. I can halve it. Five seconds?"

"Yes," he breathed, nodding absently.

Just tonight. So she could sleep. Whatever she was thinking, or not thinking, it didn't matter. She tipped forward so his forehead touched hers.

"I'm sort of losing count," she whispered as he closed his eyes. "Can't remember numbers."

Hands slid to her neck, transferring soft warmth. Nothing mattered anymore but this. His breath brushed over her skin. The gap between them closed and her lips pressed into his. Right before her mind wiped blank, she made a vague note to remind him in the morning that he was, also, quite good at this part.


	15. Visiting The Verbal World

**Chapter 15: Visiting The Verbal World**

* * *

The late winter sunrise removed all sense of time in the mornings. Clara could only assume it was still early when she blinked her eyes open to be greeted by darkness, finding herself feeling mostly rested as she became a little more alert. A few moments passed before she could orientate herself completely. John was on his side, encased around her. At first she was a little surprised she was still able to obtain the oxygen necessary to continue being alive. Her head pressed against his shoulder, mouth crushed to his chest. Amused, she quietly entertained the idea there wasn't a lot more they could have done to be closer together.

For a moment Clara contemplated he was still asleep, dreaming about whatever it was that John Smith dreamed about—not an unreasonable leap to claim weird animals and quantum physics—but fingers were drawing tiny lines on her back through her shirt. Awake—either it was too early get up, or he had decided to stay. Both, preferably.

Clara inhaled a steady breath, indulging in his warm, clean scent and decided she would have been quite content to stay exactly like this for a very long time. Traces of pleasure lingered in the outskirts of her mind and she brought the cause slowly to the forefront. The tranquil scene ran on a repetitive loop; a soft kiss failing when he pressed her back into the pillows. A struggle against the rush of black seeping into and clouding her conscious awareness. Unsuccessful in resistance, her eyes had closed and the yellow light disappeared. Weight settled over and against her. He kissed her mouth, her cheek—

 _—nothing._

Just this, now. Warmth and comfort. Probably her two favourite things. And, a dreamless, restful sleep. The recognition made her brows crease fractionally. There would be a rational, psychological explanation for that. The man fastened around her wasn't miracle Jesus.

Clara shifted her free arm to his side and then around his back, completing their airtight embrace. His chest moved in a steady rise and fall against her. She supposed the action alerted him to the fact she was now awake. Without much thought, she drifted her hand to his waist and slipped under his t-shirt, flattening her palm against his soft skin and sliding up his spine. Drawing a purposeful, vertical line with the tip of her finger to indicate orientation, she then spelt out precise and meticulous letters.

 _Hello_

It was simple enough for him to probably decipher. A moment passed before he replicated her movement, bunching her shirt in his hand and then finding skin to work upon with pressing fingers.

 _Hello._

Messy handwriting, better grammar. She smiled slightly and slowly wrote back.

 _Time?_

John returned with what she thought was a question mark, which was ambiguous in itself. Anything over four characters might have been getting complicated. A little preoccupied by his touch, she wasn't concentrating when he began another word. He repeated the soft trace when she didn't form a response.

 _Eanlg._

Eanlg. Fortunately, Clara had a small skill in translating illegible nonsense. Early, obviously. Too early to be awake. She had begun to doubt whether he even slept at all, only being witness to one instance of the occasion, and that was over two weeks ago. She went to bed before him in the evenings, and would wake to find him already wandering about the living room, guitar in hand or nose in a book. It suddenly didn't seem implausible that he'd just spent the last of the evasive hours simply watching over her, waiting for her to wake up.

 _Sleep?_

His response was delayed but the letters were drawn in slower, more careful movements.

 _Some._

Clara paused, concerned at his reply before realising he was doing an excellent job at answering her questions. Unfortunately, she reasoned, the real answers she wanted from him were most likely a little too complex to be drawn sideways on her skin while she slowly pieced together individual letters into comprehensive words. It was worth a small attempt, in any case. She slid her palm over his skin and then wrote precisely.

 _Okay?_

Frowning at what was absolutely a trivial matter, she wondered why she was adding twice as many letters into the most simplistic of words. Again, the response she received was somewhat delayed.

 _No._

 _Why?_

 _Sad._

She breathed out slowly, a frustrated part of her wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him out of saturnine behaviour and into a constructive, useful mode. Not, however, the most recommended of techniques. Deciding honesty was a better approach, she used her index finger to reply.

 _Same_

The arms around her tightened fractionally. Clara continued, pausing for clarity between words.

 _But you make me happy_

It might have been too many letters for a comprehensive translation, yet judging by the way he nudged his mouth in her hair and reinforced his already tight grip, she figured he had interpreted enough of the words to understand.

It all seemed frustratingly ironic that he was wrapped around her in a contradicting vice-like fashion after announcing in the most unconventional of ways that he didn't want to do this anymore. Hypocritical. As far as she was concerned, he still wanted her to leave. He hadn't taken back the words or offered anything in terms of explanation or further information. And if he was waiting for her initiative on a lucid decision from her own contradicting actions, he was out of luck—she didn't have one. She was reasonably certain that clearly articulating what she wanted with him would help both of their situations. Friends, friends-plus, friends-that-weren't-actually-friends, friends-that-slept-in-the-same-bed, friends-that-slept-in-the-same-bed-very-close-together—

None of that seemed in any way clear to her, so she doubted it would make any sense to him, either. She didn't have a straightforward and perspicuous answer. She didn't actually even want to try and formulate one. On the other hand, what she immediately wanted at whatever hour of the morning this was, seemed relatively simple.

 _Kiss_

Her finger trailed from the final letter and she felt him freeze, absently caressing hand pausing as the movement in his chest came to an immediate halt. To be fair, it was also an ambiguous thing to write. She added another word for clarity.

 _Now._

Full stop included for a flair of decisiveness. That was probably clear enough. He could say no. Make his own decisions. It was simply a suggestion. With a perceptive inkling—she doubted he would refuse this sort of intimacy. Well, he _might,_ but she seemed to recall him kissing her back at a time that felt like only moments ago, _and,_ he'd already spent the night wrapped around her like the contradicting, frustrating hypocrite he was. All of that appeared to be rather telling.

His fingers dug a little harder into her back. With slow but clear intentions, Clara placed a kiss where her mouth rested, into the base of his neck. Soft, lingering. Slightly higher, against his throat. Carefully into his jaw. She followed her warm attentions with her hand, trailing over his skin and then into his hair, threading long curls through her fingers, tugging his head gently back so she could find his mouth.

When she pressed her lips against his, he didn't respond. The soft touch was greeted with nothing but immobilised suspension. An unreciprocated kiss. She pulled back slightly and waited, unsure whether to pursue the advance. It might have been too much. Or she was reading him wrong, again. That wasn't a surprising conclusion anymore. Backing out, Clara pressed her head into the pillow, drawing away and giving him a small bit of space. John was obscured in the dark, barely a visible silhouette.

"Sorry," she whispered, quietly sincere in her apology but not bothering to regret the attempt.

Clara wanted to imagine that perhaps some of his previous attentions towards her should account for the most intimate of actions, but nothing could compare to the sort of intimacy that was directed upon her in the next moments. A whisper of breath against her mouth, at first leaving her with time to make the decision to pull away. Then, a chaste touch, lips tentative and careful, asking for consent.

Struck with the sudden weight that sort of kiss inhabited, she drew in a shaky breath, blinking in the dark with the impossible hope she could see his eyes. Before she could find the cognitive path to a response, he did it again, and again, and _again,_ harder and with mounting intent until her thoughts began to break and scatter. Her awareness narrowed solely to his mouth and then spread open again slowly, to the fingers curling in her hair, the thumb pressing into her cheek, the impending weight of his body as he moved above her.

His tongue slid against hers, soft and warm with purpose. As she shifted beneath him, intention transformed to impatience. Clothes became constrictive against prickling skin, unnecessary, impeding. She pulled at the hem of his shirt and he assisted her objective, discarding it somewhere into a room that was becoming surplus to existence. Fingertips transformed into heated irons within the hollow of her neck, branding her skin with possessive markings as they dragged between her breasts, burning through remaining fabric. A restive hand pressed beneath her thigh, wrapping around and parting her legs. He pushed himself against her, desperately hard and desperately wanting, his body matching the urgent pressure of his mouth with anticipatory, reflexive motion. Fire flashed down her spine, pooling and expanding through her blood.

The imperative buzz of impulse was distracting her from the fact he was taking over. The strength and drive of a controlling, peremptory edge, coercing her to let him do what he wanted, give her pleasure and break her down, piece by piece until he rendered himself as the sole source of her reality. She knew what he could do, knew how he could make her feel. It was unbelievably tempting. The pulsing rush of _want_ slammed into her. Desire, lust, whatever she had been trying to suppress when she looked at him, talked to him, _thought_ of him. She could feel herself succumbing to his hands, the heavy weight of his hips as he pressed against her, fingers sliding under her shirt, tugging insistently on the waistband of her pants—

"No," she murmured aloud, breaking their kiss and wrapping around his wrists to pull them firmly from her skin.

This couldn't proceed. None of _this_ had been her intention. She wasn't going to participate in his decisive control if he wouldn't talk to her. She had other objectives. Clara pressed her hands hard into his chest and he let her shove him onto his back, a little less gentle than what she had intended.

"We're not doing that," she asserted, swallowing and dragging her deteriorating self back toward some state of coherent thought and presence. "You're going—you're going to let me be in charge."

"No, I'm not," he muttered.

The immediate contention caught her off-guard. An insolent, almost sullen tone of voice that startled her enough to halt the next instruction. A very familiar place wedged itself between them as she received retaliation. The words hung suspended in the silence. Another few seconds for processing and then Clara was grinning into the dark, weakening with silent amusement. Her palm remained on his chest, a caution for him to stay down.

"Yes, you are, John."

"No, I'm not, _Clara."_

 _Jesus Christ._ The state of their fucking arguments. The most pointless of linear, one-dimensional rhetorics. Fingers circled around her wrist and her palm was pulled from his skin. John twisted and used his greater advantage to press his weight over her left side, trapping half of her body beneath him. A pointless exercise in trying to shift him completely with her own strength. She didn't bother. He did nothing other than silently assert that his preference was paramount.

"Lie on your back," she ordered instead, emphatic.

"No."

"Why?"

An insert for meager variation. If she had been feeling a little more optimistic about his intentions with her later on in the morning, she would have bookmarked this moment to be recalled upon in a happier future as something to laugh over.

John returned a short, impassive reply. "Don't want to."

"Because?" she prompted, a little condescending in tone.

"Because I don't."

Petulant behaviour. Great. Clara decided she wasn't above using threats. Harmless threats.

"Fine," she murmured in a dulcet tone, lifting her free shoulder in a casual yet unwitnessed shrug. "Let's just go back to that very intimate hug we were both participating in, then. You can lie there and suffer with your pointless and stubborn moronacy."

"Good," he countered, huffing and removing his weight. "I will. Thanks."

"Fine."

 _"Good."_

Following through, Clara rolled onto her side, facing away. To reduce her own susceptibility, she left a small gap between them and only grabbed his arm to lift over her waist. He pushed his fingers around to her hip and trapped them between herself and the mattress. Harmless threats were all well and good, but she had to live with the goddamn consequences as well. She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes, attempting to distract herself with whatever was available—which turned out to be absolutely nothing. Everything about his general existence was distracting. Allowing herself a moment for response and carnal impulses was a difficult door to close once opened.

"Moronacy isn't a word," John muttered into her neck, patronising. _"By_ the way."

"Well aware of that," she shot back. "The English language doesn't have enough nouns to attach to your stupid behaviour. I'm improvising."

"How about you improvise from the designated book called Dictionary before you start launching your own unnecessary creations."

"Maybe don't start insulting me about how I insult you."

"Maybe don't start trying to pretend getting expelled from school didn't hinder your education."

Clara closed her mouth to bite back her pre-planned retort, trying not to be so impressed at the speed of his immediate comeback. She fought helplessly against the traitorous smile on her lips. "Technically," she pointed out, controlling herself, "I'm officially certified as more educated and qualified than you."

"Clara, I don't need to go to university to read a few officious books and write down asinine notes while being bored out of my mind as some post-yuppie fuck in a bowtie pretends he's enjoying getting off telling a hundred cocky adolescents halfway through Tuesday's hangover some garbage about Freud's favourite way to tie his fucking shoelaces; all the while being slowly fucked up to my eyeballs in tuition fees just so I can gratify the legacy of Tony 'but what about the global marketplace' Blair's neoliberal, bullshit fetishes and sing along to the indelible-traitor-status-Lib-Dems' top forty on the singles chart broken promises and clusterfuck of an apology song."

John took a deep and necessary breath as Clara clamped her mouth closed with her hand, desperate not to expel any audible laughter at his uppity—if rather accurate—rant. Only a _little_ inconsistent to his quiet wish for higher education attendance the previous night.

"And," John continued in his growling accent, complacent, "I've literally got awards for saying words. Good awards. Important ones."

"Yeah?" Clara contended, twisting slightly so her mouth was closer to his. "Well I _literally_ wouldn't have given you any, ever. You've only just remembered how to speak in the last thirty seconds."

That shut him up. Ironically.

"Welcome back to the verbal world," she said dryly. "Any other irreverent opinions you want to get off your chest while you're visiting? Thoughts on the NHS? Public transport? The National Trust?"

"I'm saving controversial content for mine and Jack's radio show next year, actually."

His silence appeared to be rather short-lived in the face of opportunistic retaliation. Clara scowled at the comment, knowing he was just winding her up, but it irked her all the same. As intended.

"You're not going anywhere near my studio."

"I'm a national institution," he boasted. "Effigy raising, Key to the City, stadium filling cultural icon. Good luck trying to keep me out of anywhere I want to go within our whole expansive empire."

Apparently, refraining from properly speaking for twelve hours meant that arrogance was simply stored and compiled in wait of release. The curve on her lips was beginning to feel difficult to properly hold back. Triviality was too tempting to ignore.

"We're not an empire."

John paused, clearly hesitating to proceed with futile opposition on that claim. "Well, we still would be an empire if it wasn't for the _moronacy_ of some brainless lunatic handing back our last major territory to China," he criticised, recovering. "Guess who that was?"

"Not that you'll believe me, John, but I did actually go to fucking school. But I'll make sure I let the little demon reincarnate know how you really feel about her."

"She won't believe you. She loves me. Maybe I _will_ adopt her. A rescue from your reign of terror."

Clara turned slightly to grin into the pillow. "Good. I don't want it in the house."

"Fine."

"Good."

" _Fine."_

"I hope she rips up all your expensive furniture with her evil little claws."

John dug his fingers deliberately harder into her side. "I can just buy new expensive furniture with the income I'll be getting from my new co-hosting position on our majesty's favourite radio show."

Without witness, Clara frowned, suspicious at the implied level of detail. "What?"

"Jack wants me to co-host." John sounded awfully smug about the claim.

"No, he doesn't," she snapped. "If he said that to you, it's only to annoy me."

Quite familiar with the way her former-friend-Jack-Harkness operated, he probably did make the offer without consulting her, and was serious. Clara made a small note to remind him of her jail-inducing personality the next time they were in proximity of each other.

"I'm co-hosting the show," John expressed firmly. She could _hear_ the smirk plastered to his face. "And you're going to have to sit there listening to me talk about anything I want."

Clara twisted around to face him. He kept his arm across her waist, fingers pressing into her spine. She tried to ignore the way he evoked an amorous response, just so she could concentrate. The only redeeming factor was that her incidental, unruly reaction was far outweighed by the reaction John was experiencing. She could feel him rippling with agitated tension, muscles flexing and shifting in the inches between them.

"John, let's be very clear," she asserted, wanting to press a finger into his chest. "There is not even an alternative universe where I would agree to spend another second in a studio with you, hearing you whine on with some dissenting complaint about whoever's been annoying you outside the gates of your personal Kensington palace. I'm struggling to understand how the fuck we even let you put any of your oscitant noise on a tape in the first place, let alone entertain the idea of giving you three hours every week to encourage the spoken word version. At least a song only lasts four minutes."

"Well I'm still struggling to understand how the fuck you can even work in radio without ever hearing proper music before."

 _"Proper_ music? You're the conformist version of Oasis, capitalising on introspective lyrics instead of music-of-the-lad so you can prostitute yourself to the Americans, and benefiting because of your predecessors' commercial success. There's nothing proper about that."

"I fucking invented post-Britpop!"

Clara grinned out into the dark, thoroughly enjoying the growing outrage and indignation from her disparaging taunts. "Few derivative chords on the guitar and a set of glowering eyebrows. How hard can it be."

"I'm not the conformist version of anything," John growled, shifting enough to brush his forehead against hers. "Take that back."

"No."

"Clara, take it back."

The small space between them was beginning to feel unbearable. A spark of vehement, heated energy and all she wanted to do was lead on impulse, remove the previous day from her head completely and simply take advantage of his warmth and proximity. Part of him must have wanted the same. Fingers crept down her side.

"I'll take it back if you get on your back," she offered, closing another inch of space.

"No."

None of their light provocation was removing the fact that she was possibility heading into more dangerous, unmapped territory. She didn't really know what she was doing. She could only point him in the direction she wanted and hope he would follow along. But she could at least read his instinctive response to the situation. She had no confusion about what he wanted. Breath short, erratic, body shifting restlessly beside her. Proven as his hand slid from her waist to her thigh, curving into the softer underside above her knee.

"No," she snapped, feeling rather smug about the eliciting position she had put him in.

He didn't stop the advance, inching his fingers upwards, digging into flesh.

"Forgotten what no means?"

"No," he retorted, retreating the offending fingers to her waist.

"You're far too… _worked up_ to be of use to me, anyway."

Clara smirked to herself, knowing that would probably hit a nerve. A low growl emitted from his throat. He was obviously insulted.

"That's not true," John objected slowly, tone of voice absolutely confirming he was affronted by the suggestion.

"Two minutes, max."

She felt him pause, hesitating in order to consider her intentions. If she could have seen his features, she was positive he would be narrowing his eyes in disgust. Severely affronted.

"You don't really think that."

"Actually," she contended, "I do think that. What did you do about yourself the night before when you left me in your bed?" She didn't bother waiting for a response, answering for him instead. "Yeah—exactly. Nothing. For whatever your secretive, self-justifiable reasons are. Claiming superiority and pretending to have some impressive resistance towards me ultimately means fuck all, John. You might be an untouchable national institution with effigies raised in amplified, hyperbolic worship to your creative genius, but in the end, you're just a man."

The edges of her lips curved. Based on the way he was breathing heat, she was getting under his skin, pressing a knife a little deeper into his delicate ego.

"And you're proving it all, right now. Because you're in my bed. I didn't ask you to be here."

Clara forced his clamping arm from her waist and pressed a hand into his chest. "You're a contradicting hypocrite," she continued, assertive with edging impatience. "And you know it. So stop fighting with yourself for a little while. Give up. Surrender. Letting me have this control isn't weakness. It's sharing."

He didn't attempt any form of answer, simply kept still and waited for her unavoidable finish.

"Lie on your back, John," Clara demanded conclusively. "Or get out of my bed."


	16. Intercostal Space

**A/N: Hello. Not that I've ever bothered to warn you before, but here's some partially x-ish(?)-rated content…**

* * *

 **Chapter 16: Intercostal Space**

* * *

Again, again, _again,_ for what was now heading into the ballpark of the one millionth time, the change in modes was still overly startling. It was too quick for Clara to make any real sense of.

 _Lie on your back, John. Or get out of my bed_ —

Confusion at her own ability to perceive it hit her first. It should have been an implausible feat. She couldn't see him. John was barely a silhouette in the darkened room, an obscured shadow at most. No interpretable expression, no spoken word. Instead, a visceral, intuitive sensation swerved into her awareness. His manner switched instantaneously, like flicking a dial to a different setting. Vulnerability crashed over him. Not that of fear, simply a purely defenseless state, exposed and compromised at the choice laid in front of him.

 _Mistake_ followed confusion—that she'd backed him into a corner, put him in an impossible, conflicting position he couldn't deal with. Startled, surprised, she poised to redact everything, instinctively wanting to reconcile. Before she could utter undecided words, John shifted, rolling onto his back. Surprised again, Clara didn't move, waiting gingerly until she was certain he wasn't using the motion as an intermediary to leave. A reasonable amount of time passed for her to conclude he wasn't going anywhere. Propping herself up on her forearm, she reached out an overly cautious hand to rest on his shoulder. He twitched slightly as she touched him but seemed to accept the placement.

"John?"

"Yes." A tenuous, susceptible tone.

She had witnessed him vulnerable before, but this was something else entirely. It _felt_ like something else, being more than enough to make her hesitate, to wonder if she wasn't just exacerbating the underlying issue rather than merely getting him to quietly concede to something that should have been simple and inconsequential. She wasn't asking him for anything other than a bit of begrudging compliance, yet he was reacting as if she'd threatened to burn him with a branding iron.

"I was just going to touch you," she murmured, assuring. "That was all."

"Kay," he mumbled back.

"Can I… can I do that?"

She felt his head move in a repetitive motion, but couldn't tell what the response determined. He confirmed in an undertone before she could ask.

"Yes."

She didn't really know what this was, fully comprehend the difference between right now, when they had slept together previously, and minutes ago as he was positioned above her, agitated and demanding.

"John," she reiterated, wanting to be absolutely sure. _"Is_ that okay?"

"Yes," he mumbled again.

The affirmative repeats weren't convincing her at all. It was enough to make her head spin, frustration tapping hard on the door for attention. She did her best to ignore it, listing a string of distant profanities in her head, wondering if the two of them were ever destined to have a normal, innocuous moment together. All evidence seemed to be pointing into the 'no' category.

"Fucksake."

Clara breathed the curse automatically, a reflexive response to the piling weight of infinite challenges between them. It was relentless, one thing after the other, a constant stream of undefined confusion.

"No—wait," she amended promptly, realising he might infer that she was alluding to him personally. "John. That's not directed at you."

"You can," he said quietly, tone insinuating he was trying to quickly diffuse her concern. "Touch. It's fine."

She exhaled, deliberating. "I'm not sure it really is," she replied gently, sighing again.

Stretching out on her side against him, she pushed her head into the pillow, close enough so her lips could brush the curve of his ear. Reaching an arm across his chest in what she hoped was an assuring hug, she lay still for awhile, giving him some time to relax.

It hadn't even crossed her mind he could be completely rejective or aversive like this. Probably naive of her to think otherwise. It must have been blatantly obvious. Even without his on-air and _I've-got-issues-with-this_ confessions, Clara could easily guess the details into the sort of sex he liked, the type he'd had with his illicit accomplices, what he was after, what he would have wanted them to do. Not a difficult leap. There would have been nothing of what she was suggesting they do now. No _lie-on-your-back-John-do-what-I-say._ No receiving without explicit, controlling instructions, no chance to explore anything that might be new. The only thing he would have wanted was something she herself could never have given him. Nothing of intimacy, nothing of romance, nothing of companionship; and accompanied by a darker, damaging underside of fleeting, pointless moments. A lonely way to be in the company of another person.

However, in the immediate circumstances, she might have felt a little less frustrated and a little more sympathetic toward his current situation had he not spent the last twenty four hours swerving within the boundaries of being an insufferable, arrogant twat. Whether he could help it or not.

Eventually his manner seemed to calm into something a little more normal and she nudged her mouth against him, murmuring. "John? You know it's not… this isn't about me, yeah?"

Clara didn't expect him to answer. More rhetorical than anything, she just needed to explain her reasonings. She took another breath and closed her eyes. "I just… We've only ever done… _intimacy,"_ she termed quietly, "as a result of emotionally charged circumstances. Just continually at the back end of some fight or helpless moment. It's not… healthy. Not good. We should be happy. Calm. And I shouldn't… I shouldn't be using you for any self-serving motives. It's unsustainable."

Clara sighed, wanting to scrub at her forehead with slight exasperation. "And if you already think our entire relationship is unsustainable, then I would rather not make this anymore difficult for myself than it is."

She ran her hand down his chest, cautiously insinuating. "This is different. I just want to make you feel… good. For a bit. I want you to relax. And then I want you to go to sleep. Properly. Rest. Shut down so you can be clear in the morning." Clara pressed her fingers into his opposite shoulder, over taut, tense muscles, indicating to the inhibiting factor. "This will help. In the most simple of ways.

"And if you can't," she continued gently, "then that's fine. I meant what I said before. You don't owe me an explanation for anything. We can just lie here, if you want. Like this. You don't have to go."

Part of her felt like she deserved some serious congratulations for the maturity of that speech. Most notably because another, larger part was just about ready to turn cynical with impatience and frustration. She encouraged the mature side, despite the easy temptation for the other. It would be futile. She was now overtly aware the words John Smith were synonymous with Brick Wall.

"I could annoy you with some more musical opinions," she offered when he didn't say anything in return. "Do you want an album review next? I brought your most recent one. Last week."

It took him a moment to form a response, like he was remembering how to make proper words. "Darillium?"

Clara paused, unsure why he was questioning it but grateful he was at least talking. "Is that not the most recent?"

She felt him lift his shoulders in a shrug. "You tell me," he mumbled. "It's almost six years old."

"Well, I haven't even listened to it yet," she confessed, disregarding his trivial point. In her defence, she'd probably already unintentionally heard most of it. And absently tuned it out over broadcasts from whatever studio she'd been working in at the time. The thought made her want to laugh.

"Better be good," she added, "because it cost a lot more than what I'm usually willing to spend on ten songs. I actually even considered going outside to physically get the CD until I realised the social horror of someone recognising me and noticing what I was buying."

"You made the right decision," John replied slowly, hesitating. "That album is about River."

"Shit," she breathed, smiling instantly into his hair and struggling to keep from laughing. "Okay, some warning there would have been appreciated. Jesus Christ. Imagine if I'd been seen with that in my hand."

Managing to keep her amusement mostly silent, Clara dipped her head into his shoulder, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. She found the edges of the partially discarded sheet and pulled it back up to their waists. It was far from cold, not with John being the galaxy's primary heat source, but it was a little more consoling.

"Hey," she murmured after awhile, feeling a small hint of rising guilt as her mind ran languid loops of their earlier moment of light-hearted provoking. "Your music isn't actually oscitant noise. You know I don't really mean that, right?"

"I don't even know what oscitant means," John admitted quietly.

"Really," Clara drawled, smiling again, tone peppered with uncontrollable condescension. "Seems like you _could_ have benefited from some more education. Means yawning. From tiredness. Or drowsiness. Whichever you prefer."

"I would probably prefer neither."

"Mmm," she accepted inattentively, distracted as his trapped hand between them moved against the outside of her thigh. "I think oscitant noise might be an oxymoron anyway."

"I was more offended by the Oasis comment." His other fingers pressed momentarily into her covering arm. "And I think you'll find oxymoronacy is the correct term."

Clara grinned, glad he was returning to something a little more familiar with her. Hoping he was smiling, she adjusted her head to be level with his, breathing in him and blinking as his hair brushed into her eyes. "Maybe I won't start with your last album. What do you recommend?"

"Go back." His low Scottish burr was slightly broken. Words clipped and didn't quite complete. "Everyone thinks number two was our defining moment. Loveland and such. But it's always been album one. We were never as good as we were in those first moments."

She smiled, absently wishing there was a light source so she could see his expression. Reaching for the lamp seemed both to be too much of an effort and perhaps partly intrusive. This might have been better in the dark. A slight cover for tentative emotion.

"Miss being eighteen?" she asked after a moment, soft encouragement to keep him talking.

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Suppose," she agreed in a murmur. "What were you like?"

John drew in a deep breath. She felt the lift in his chest, poised to release as a weary sigh.

"Different," he answered eventually. A heavy sort of hesitation grew until he continued with considered, almost poignant words. "Like Louis, I think. Full of confidence and naivety. Wild. Reckless. Less selfish and more irresponsible. Braver. Better. Angry."

Another moment of extended silence spread before he went on. "Angry at… at the conditions I'd had to grow up in. That there was a human face to the greed and lust for power that had made my parents suffer and my sister—" John stopped abruptly, clearing his throat. "Well. I just… I wanted to save everyone but had no idea how. King of the world but without a plan and without destination. Just hope."

John pushed his head back into the pillow. He sighed once again, this time with quiet regret. "You would have liked eighteen-year-old-me."

"I like forty-one-year-old you."

"But if you were eighteen and I was eighteen," he mumbled, "you would have liked me. I wish we could have met earlier."

"Well, yeah," she agreed, humoured at his desire for what could only ever be a hypothetical situation. "If we were smarter—four years ago. Timing would have been great for me. Although I mean… it would've meant we'd have needed to have a real affair."

Clara smiled to herself, narrowing her eyes as she thought through the logistics. "That would have been interesting. I honestly think I would have gone along with it back then, too. I'm morally ambivalent on a few topics."

A tiny whisper of amusement escaped from John's lips before he lifted his fingers to rest upon her forearm.

"Hang on," she amended, frowning. "I would like to go on record as saying I wouldn't have gone along with that."

"I wouldn't have put you in that situation."

Clara gave him a very unimpressed look he couldn't see. "You _did_ put me in that situation."

"Oh," he mumbled, clearing his throat again. "Yes. Well. Anyway."

Clara didn't entirely mean to, but he was so close, and so warm, she found herself shifting just enough so her lips pressed into the side of his mouth. John turned his head to complete the kiss, an absent motion he might not have been entirely aware of at first, either.

This was better. Soft, gentle, as intimate as it had been before, yet this time replaced with something other than a drive to further proceed. He filled her senses, his warm taste and clean scent, touch of grazing fingers against her arm as she sent her palm into his chest and then to his neck. She was about ready to disregard everything she had previously outlined in her amiable, well intentioned speech. If he didn't stop her, she would have stayed here forever. He could have done whatever he wanted. No one had kissed her like this. No one, ever. She felt her heart in ears, a distant pulse while faraway bells chimed out to alert that her meandering thoughts were infringing upon dangerous territory.

John pushed his shoulders back as they parted again for air. "You could… touch." He swallowed, tone clearly indicating he was unsure about what he might receive in response. "If you wanted to."

"I _do_ want to, as a matter of fact," she murmured into his mouth, smiling and returning sluggishly to her senses. "Very much. Do _you_ want me to?"

"Yes, please."

How polite. Clara grinned against him. "Okay."

"Okay," he confirmed.

"Okay."

"O—"

Her lips pressed in his, cutting off their nonsense. They could have probably done that for hours.

Right. _Right._ This seemed like some potential progress. _Slowly_ was probably going to be the key. She dragged her mind entirely out of her own pressing desire and focused on a different objective.

Leaning in, Clara touched her lips against his throat, placing a feather-light kiss into his pulse. John tilted his head back marginally, exposing more of his neck. Regarding that to be a consenting action, she began a small line of soft pecks towards his chest, and then returned, gradually making her way upwards. His skin was incredibly soft. Hot beneath her fingers. She stayed where she was, using gentle caress to discreetly make him relax.

John flinched as she scraped her teeth along his ear. An exceedingly wry smile she partly wished he could see curved her mouth. He was probably lucky she was treating this moment with mindful empathy rather than subjecting him to her switching on the light, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed, donning the pair of glasses she didn't own and pulling out a notebook, ready to scribble down a few consequential remarks. She was quite interested in asking—in an incredibly patronising tone _—_ how he could continue justifying both controlling and overly vulnerable behaviour when what had happened between the two of them in her London bedroom completely undermined his entire claim of operation.

 _Contradicting hypocrite._

John liked to be kissed just below his ear. She could feel him shiver each time she pressed her lips into the sensitive area. A small discovery that made her smile. She wanted to spend hours doing this. Exploring. Map out his entire body. Find every place where she could give soft caress and he would react in this way. Know how she could make his attention switch solely to her, know how hard she could press into his arms before it hurt, know where he liked her tongue and her _mouth—_

She didn't have hours. Only an extended set of minutes. At some point, light would insist on creeping into their enclosed and intimate space, and she wanted him asleep long before that was to inevitably happen. With deliberate redirection, she kissed down his chest, trailing her hands, and followed the line of his ribs, shifting her path from his sides when he flinched with intolerable sensitivity. He was probably ticklish. The thought made her feel warm with affection.

"The gap between two ribs is called intercostal space," John mumbled, arching inadvertently as she pressed a little harder with exploratory fingers.

"How incredibly fascinating," she murmured back, sarcastic and pressing her grin into his identified area.

He hummed noncommittally. "Twenty four ribs."

"Know that."

"For… protecting lungs. And heart."

Clara's smile continued at the conveying of basic, rudimentary knowledge. He was undoubtedly distracted.

"Two lungs."

His breath caught slightly as she let her tongue taste his skin.

"Unless you have only one—one lung," he added, swallowing and then trying to even out his exceedingly staggered rate of inhalation.

She bit into her lip and stopped herself from returning an irreverent quip. Talking, she supposed, was making him more comfortable. She crossed over his stomach and paused, feeling him tense as her hands dropped. Letting him get used to her position, she shaped circular patterns with her fingers before lowering her head, kissing across his convulsing muscles with slow, delicate consistency. She ran the edge of her tongue sideways below his navel, smiling at his involuntary reaction. This might have been considered as something belonging in the category for teasing.

"I go running," John told her suddenly through stumbled speech.

Clara hummed absent acknowledge, deciding not to reply to his distractions unless she really needed to.

"In—in London. Outside? In the park. Even when it's cold. And, ah… punch. Punch things. Inside. At home."

Exercise routines. Evidently an important moment to impart this information. Biting back another smile and some derisive comment about his made-of-steel body, she ignored him. Her mouth trailed lower and she paused as she reached his waistband. She used her index finger to draw a line across the elastic and then stilled, listening to him breathe, gauging his response. He was trembling. A good sort of tremble. Intermittent, reflexive as her touch made him react.

Power surged through her. It was an unavoidable, instinctive response to her position and his vulnerable outset. She crushed it down hard, forcing the influx away as temptation suggested options in her head, a listed set of specific ideas as to what she could do next; all the while reminding her how appealing it was that these were circumstances possible to really test his boundaries. Despite his adamant claims and her doubts while he strove to convince her, she was reasonably certain it was entirely achievable that if she abstained from touch, he would be forced to plead. She didn't even think it would be very difficult. He was all barriers and denial, but she just needed to capture him in a precise moment, like stepping through an accelerated revolving door at exactly the right time. The point of it… well, there might not have been a point other than she was pretty sure she would have enjoyed it. A lot.

Clara tugged the rest of the sheets away from his body and then pulled at his waistband, removing him entirely of excess material.

"I'm not—" John swallowed as she drew a slow line up his thigh. "I'm not good at this part."

"You don't have to do anything," she reasoned in a murmur. "This is the easy bit."

"Mmm." He didn't seem very convinced by that remark. "Bad at receiving," he confessed in a quick rush of anxious words. "Like this."

The tips of his fingers pressed lightly into the back of her hand and Clara paused her upwards trail.

"Should we stop?"

"No."

She could hear his head twist on the pillow, moving into each side as if trying to get comfortable. He hesitated at the brink of beginning another sentence, but persisted after another moment of pause.

"You're probably sick of me being weird by now."

Clara exhaled slowly, blinking toward his obscured form in the dark. The statement was emitted like he had already made up his mind about her response.

"No," she murmured gently, sincere. Stretching out beside him instead, she slid her left arm under his neck and kissed into his jaw. "I'm not, John. Honestly. Just confused. There's a difference."

No further reply, but that was far from unexpected. With an air of decisiveness, Clara changed tactics completely, reverting to a tried and tested method. If their circumstances had been different, if they could have been happy and calm, then she would have led him into her bed in an altogether contrasting way—teasing, comfortable, humour at the forefront. Just as they had done in an irrational and illogical moment on an icy London night.

"I'm really good at receiving," Clara declared, a smile beginning to press on her mouth as she provided him with the statement as if it were an obvious and well known fact.

She felt John's head move in a nodding motion. "Excellent," he mumbled in quiet agreement. He cleared his throat. "Probably… too good."

"Well," she sighed, clicking her tongue and then switching her tone into something overly casual. "I'm probably… probably better than you at receiving. A lot better."

There was a moment of pause as John caught on to what she was doing. "Are you trying to trick me into thinking this is a competition?"

"Absolutely not. But if it _was_ a competition"—Clara grinned and tapped her index finger on his collarbone—"I would win."

As intended, he was unable to help himself. "No."

She laughed silently against his cheek, sending her hand up to run through the short hair beside his ear. Too easy.

"I would win," John added carefully, a little indignant.

"Is that right," she murmured slowly, running her thumb over his eyebrows. Definitely frowning. Smiling, she tilted to plant a lingering kiss at the edge of his mouth.

"Yes. And even if you did win, it would only be because I'm excellent at giving."

She figured he was about ready to switch on the light and start his PowerPoint presentation of collected evidence and accompanying diagrams and graphs.

"No," she countered, biting into her lip to keep her voice impassive. "You're very good, but I'm unquestionably better than you."

"You think you're better at giving than _me?"_

It was becoming exceedingly difficult to refrain from outright laughter. He sounded affronted. Even while being well aware of her intentions, his ego was too delicate for him to be able to ignore the light teasing. Her small strategy working, Clara could feel him starting to relax, the anxious edge fading as she gave him something provoking to focus on.

"Mmm," she nodded in reply, pressing her palm flat on his chest and tapping her fingers. "Yeah. Guess you'll never know though. Shame. I'm very good with my hands."

"You have tiny hands."

"I have normal sized hands."

John paused. "Yes, but probably… too small though. You know. For me."

Clara knocked her forehead into his for immediate reprimand, grin expanding in a helpless way. "Fucksake," she laughed into his mouth, feeling his lips curve into a definite smile around her fingers. _"Men._ Christ. You're all the same."

"We're not _all_ the same," he opposed, undoubtedly smug. She imagined his smile was transforming a little too quickly into a smirk. "Because other men are anatomically inferio—"

"All right, all right," she cut in, rolling her eyes. "It's not a competition."

"I thought it _was_ a competition."

"How about you compare yourself to the size of your ego instead?"

"Maybe I will."

"I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go with this conversation now," Clara sighed. "It really derailed on me."

"I won this conversation."

She gave him a gentle smile she wished he could see. "You win."

"I won," he whispered back.

Lingering fingers brushed down her cheek. John rested his thumb on her bottom lip and she pushed the tip of her tongue against his skin. His breath caught, a fractional but distinctive shift. Clara stopped herself, with great difficulty, from finding his mouth with hers. An addictive engagement.

"Hey," she said quietly, touching on his ear. "I wouldn't ever want to put you in a position like this that you're not entirely comfortable with, yeah?"

John nodded against her forehead, silent.

"You're always number one. Don't forget." She spoke a conceding, muffled offer into his curls. "Maybe you could tell me what to do instead?"

"I trust you," he whispered in between short breaths. "And… it's a competition. So it's your turn."

"Not really how any of this works," she reminded him with another helpless smile.

John hummed a distinctive noise in the affirmative and pressed the side of his body as close to her as possible.

"I'll stop if you tell me to."

A quiet promise as she grazed gentle fingers down his chest to his waist. Not wanting to tease, she circled her hand around him and showed his quivering self just exactly how their next moments together were going to proceed. He bucked ever so slightly and turned his head into her shoulder, crushing his mouth against her skin. The sound he emitted was barely audible but unmistakeable as whimpering pleasure. Good.

Two minutes was probably an overstatement. Every muscle in his body trembled as she stroked him in steady motion. He wasn't going to need much. She could feel what he liked, learning and interpreting from his breath against her, the absent fingers digging into the inside of her thigh, the perceivable shift as he fought against his instinctual response for movement.

"Clara." A bad job of pronouncing her name. "I can't—"

"Shush," she murmured into his ear, not very interested in curtailing pleasure for time. She wondered what he'd do now if she actually did stop. No doubt would probably be stubborn enough to accept it without the traitorous insistence of release that his body demanded.

She kissed down his neck and he tipped his head back hard into the pillow, fingers falling from her leg to grapple with the sheets below. The intake of breath became shallow and uneven as he failed to sustain a rate of normalcy. A hand clasped around her wrist, but he made no attempt to halt her movement. His weak resistance flickered sporadically as he strove to keep himself unresponsive, biting his teeth together to suppress a groan and then releasing his clamping grip, dropping fingers back into the sheets.

"Clara," he pleaded again, straining. His voice broke. "I'm too—too close. Stop."

Adhering to his wishes, she removed her hand and pressed her forehead into his, trying not to sigh in partially empathetic frustration. John attempted to turn completely on his side, but she put weight into his opposite shoulder and held him down. She slid across his cheek, feeling his erratic, quick breath, and pressed her lips over his own. He whimpered and kissed her back, desperate.

Breaking, Clara moved to murmur against his ear. "Stop it, you idiot."

The tips of her fingers lowered to caress his chest, running small and repetitive lines. She didn't want him to feel like he had to fight against her. She only wanted him happy, safe, to know there was nothing in her motive but to simply give him the most basic and instinctual form of relief, a mind wiped clear of stress and a complete dissociation from everything that had made his eyes blur across a warmly lit table. Seconds was enough, just a short, fleeting moment where nothing mattered.

He couldn't accept it. Or didn't know how. In conflict with his body—burning with radiating heat and barely able to stand her light touch, trembling, rippling with unavoidable sensitivity. She kissed him again, giving him an outlet for his frantic distress.

Silly, frustrating, ridiculous man. Even if he had wanted to, it was too late for him to find any sort of return. Wavering on a fragile ledge, requiring only a tiny push to tip over into breathless space, the ground already breaking from under him.

"Let me," Clara murmured, devoid of demand, only suggestive.

"I want—I want you to," he groaned into her mouth, helpless.

"I know."

She put her lips back into his and tried to convey unspoken wishes. The temptation to simply make the decision for him flickered in her thoughts, but to consider acting on it was impossible.

He gave in, finally, like he was providing some sort of mercy for himself. Letting his body take over, his fingers clasped around hers and brought her down properly, conceding, relinquishing the struggle to remain in control of a needless battle. The stoic barriers crumbled with his weak protests. Gasping, he thrust hard into her hand and she matched his demands, sending him past a line he couldn't retreat from. His knees bent as fingers dug into her thigh, hard enough to bruise while his teeth grazed beneath her jaw. Groaning her name a final time, he buckled and convulsed, tumbling over the edge and into an expansive, blissful world.

She wanted to be in his head. Experience the violent wall of flaring pleasure crashing against him. A vicarious desire for his relief surged in her blood. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip, nerves alight and overly affected by his response to her. It was all rather appealing. She felt hot with her own desire. But this was for him. She ignored it.

His chest heaving with laboured breath, the waves gradually eased and she slowly stilled around him. John sunk down into the bed, depleted of strength, the tension dispersing from his body to be replaced with a placid, weakened state. Clara pressed lingering kisses into his cheek and then rested her forehead on the side of his, waiting patiently for him to come back.

There were tissues on the table by her side of the bed and she reached across to blindly retrieve them. He murmured a sound of indistinct thanks and she wished silently that she could see his features, again regretting not having done this with sufficient lighting so she could have witnessed his expression in the aftermath. She could only guess. Shy, perhaps. In the dark he missed her soft smile.

Mumbling into her shoulder, John attempted to speak. "Can I…" He stopped, slowing as if he were forgetting the fundamentals of speech. "Can I make you feel… like this?"

Clara wasn't sure if that was a request to reciprocate, or a comparative question about his own prior performances. He continued before she could ask.

"Just having rest," he assured, words thick with exhaustion. "Two minutes."

The former, of course. Sighing, she rolled her eyes, considering taking back anything complimentary she had suggested in the shower about him being a good listener. He was supposed to be using this opportunity to now go to sleep. And, even if a return was what she had wanted, she doubted he could even move, let alone attempt anything strenuous concerning her.

"Physically superior to… planet," came a mumbled, broken response.

"Quite the claim."

Smiling out into the dark at his nonsense, she put her hand into his curls and brushed through with gentle, careful caress. The edges of his hairline were slightly damp. She leant forward to plant a soft kiss into his temple, and then beside his ear. He hummed quietly, releasing a deep sigh of content. He was fading rapidly. Not however, without another round of opposition.

"Not asleep," John asserted, twisting his head into hers, resolute and demanding. "Say—say something."

Amusement flickered through her. Clara smiled again at his pointless resistance. Still fighting. Idiot.

"What?"

"Anything."

"I think you might be obsessed with cats," she offered after a moment, tapping her thumb into his shoulder.

"Mmm," he agreed, nodding against her.

"I just feel like there's been too many instances of cat related moments for this to be a casual interest."

"Once," he started, before pausing for a longer than appropriate moment required to continue a sentence, "Hamish told Ash she could get a cat from the rescue place. Kitten. I said… I said I'd take girls to choose. Then… well. So many cats. Needed homes. And Chloe said she wanted one."

Even while skipping most of the background information she needed for narrative coherency, Clara figured she knew exactly how this patchwork story was going to conclude. She bit into her lip to stop escaping amusement.

"Was living in Glasgow," John went on, slightly filling the gap. "Ten months. Four, maybe four years ago. Chloe and me took home our five new cats."

A helpless smile pressed on the edges of her mouth.

"Fluffy… Fluffy II, Fluffy III, Lord—Lord Sunflower and… and Pirate Joe. Only one eye."

John stopped again and Clara thought he might have succumbed to her soporific attempts and the final pull of sleep. Shaking himself alert however, he drew in a deep breath and nestled his head into her neck to speak against her skin.

"My sister's a psychopath. Not kidding. Worse—worse than me." He managed to slur his way through every 's' present in the fragmented sentence. "Missy… not happy. She put them in car, drove us all back to rescue place. Chloe started crying in carpark. I told her to. Kid's never cried in her life. And then… that's—that's how we got to keep five cats. The end. That's it." He was struggling to form the words to speak. "That's the story. I'm awake still… see."

The insistence didn't have much conviction behind it. Feeling severely lightheaded and weak with affection, Clara exhaled slowly and faltered. "Good story," she swallowed, grappling with a desperate need to suppress the rampage of warmth. She cleared her throat and pulled herself together, talking for distraction.

"Why were you living in Glasgow?"

"River… away. For work. Wanted to be around someone. Not… be by myself."

John shifted slightly against her and then moved a languid hand to rest at the base of her shoulder, thumb drifting over her collarbone. He was crushing the arm she had behind his neck, but she didn't seem to be able to mind very much. Clara brushed his hair and let him continue his slow speech without interruption.

"They're angry at me."

"Who?" she murmured, a little disorientated.

"Everyone. Ed. Hamish. Donna. You're angry at me."

She blinked through the offset statement, trying to gauge his purpose before replying, soft but speaking truth. "Ah… yeah. Yes."

"Then why don't you ever look angry?"

Clara frowned, not really understanding the intent. He continued before she could begin forming a response.

"You just smile and it looks like you're happy."

"I am," she contended quietly, confused.

"No." His head turned from side to side beneath her hand. "You just said you were angry."

"I can have two emotions at once."

"No."

They needed to talk about this in daylight. He wasn't really making much sense to her. He was practically asleep. Clara wasn't sure if he was even voluntarily speaking. She was almost tempted to stop all communication, but couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Do you really want me to leave?" she asked quietly, keeping her voice as expressionless and steady as possible.

There was no pause or hesitation in his response.

"Yes," he affirmed, mumbling laced in an accepting, resolute tone. "I'm not good for you, Clara. I hurt everyone I touch. Even—even if you're happy now, you won't be later." His failing, muffled speech was almost unintelligible. "I've been weak about it because I want you."

She swallowed, comprehending enough and feeling like her mouth was going dry.

"I want—I wanted you when I saw you. Right at the start. But I'm making you worse." John turned into her properly and managed to drape a heavy arm over her waist. "One minute," he assured. "I'm awake."

He wasn't. Careful not to disturb, she pulled away from him and began climbing from the bed.

"Where're you going?" he protested in a slurring mumble, reaching out a weak hand to stop her departure.

Not quite asleep.

"I'm coming back," she lied, sitting down.

He was too weak to object any further. Clara gently uncurled the fingers clasping the hem of her shirt and returned his arm. She pulled the duvet up to his shoulders and ran her thumb slowly over his cheek, coercing him into peaceful rest. She stayed long enough to this time completely confirm he was undoubtedly unconscious.

Standing, Clara padded lightly into the hallway, shielding her eyes from the intake of illumination. Too bright. Locking the bathroom door, she surveyed the abandoned incident, expecting mess. All evidence of the former scene was already gone, wet clothes removed and tiles dry from the trailing flood. She lifted the tap on the sink to wipe out the silence and stared fixated at the constant stream of water.

She was fine. Physically fine, and in the general vicinity of her head—it at least felt honest when she murmured the words into the sink.

 _I'm fine._

The last two days of events felt oddly distant and removed, similar to the heated burst of an argument that had faded into something that wasn't exactly resolved, but better for having done it. Some gradual perspective had been restored somewhere along the way. She was done now with arguing, fighting, any further arduous attempts at salvaging this mess through anger. The thought made a welcome wave of calm composure ease its way around her system.

John's watch was on the counter. She picked it up, squinting for the time. Blinking, it took her a few moments to realise it wasn't her vision that was the issue, but the face itself—the crystal foggy with moisture. Water had begun corroding the insides. She swore aloud, almost tempted to pair dismay with a bout of laughter. Now she was responsible for breaking his goddamn watch. Great.

She supposed he would have a few days to get someone qualified to pull it apart before the mechanisms rusted and deteriorated beyond repair. Time enough. It was a nice watch. Expensive, old—the silver casing was marked and worn with age, although the leather strap looked new, not the original. She turned it over absently, inspecting. A small engraving on the back made her amused enough to at first smile.

 _Mad world!  
_ _Mad kings!  
_ _Mad composition!_

Shakespeare. The smile transformed to a grin as she connected the words to the corresponding play. Whoever had given him this had an excellent sense of humour.

Clara placed it back down and set both her hands against the counter, pressing weight forward into her wrists. She glanced up into the mirror, blinking again to adjust her focus. Eyes a little red, hair a mess, skin pale. Not an unfamiliar sight. John had marked her neck. Just below her jaw, a suggestive, vampirical type of bite. She supposed that meant she would now have the privilege of transforming into an overdramatic hypocrite with dreadful listening skills and memory retention rivaling that of a supercomputer. Perhaps not a bad thing. It might have meant she could have understood him a little better.

Her gaze turned towards the shower to contemplate. Five minutes. She'd already spent an inordinate amount of time under water in the recent past. Another five minutes would be fine.

With her eyes closed and forehead against the wall, she stood and washed every trace of him from her skin, his hands, his mouth, the press of his perfect body; preparing herself for the possibility that he really was stupid enough to believe what he was saying to her.


	17. Disbandment Of The Passive Boyfriends

**Chapter 17:** **Disbandment Of The Passive Boyfriends**

* * *

Amy Pond had never answered the phone in a reasonable manner in her entire life. Clara was bordering on at least forty five seconds of conversation and was yet to say a word.

"—and here was me thinking it was Jack we needed to be concerned about running his mouth off about you. Turns out if you combine an open bar, Christmas decorations, and a room full of a hundred fucking journalists, my boyfriend turns into their best friend. Seriously, you should have seen him. I needed two people to carry him into the cab. He's been in bed all weekend trying to recover. I'm surprised he even made it into work this morning. Hey, and, I'm serious about that vet bill, by the way. Guess whose cat Margaret Thatcher tried to eat? Paula from across the road. Yeah—I know what you're thinking. Paula already hates you, Amy. Well—great news—apparently it's possible to succeed the accidental-car-in-reverse incident because Mittens, or whatever the hell she named her purebred gold plated furball, spent Saturday in private cat hospital. I did make this excellent joke slash political point though about Margaret Thatcher actually being a big fan of the NHS despite wanting to nationalise everything she looked at, but it didn't really go down that well and th—"

"Amy," Clara growled, finally interrupting. "Can you shut up? Stop answering the phone like you're giving me a presentation on oral communication."

Snickering, her friend resorted to the usual brash manner for any reprimand thrown in her direction. "What the fuck do you want then?"

Clara sent a helpless smile out into the picturesque harbour in front of her. Sun was glinting off the water and making her blink. "Busy?"

"Mmm… yeah. Very busy. Just got off the phone with the in-law, actually. Want a rundown on Brian's new fridge freezer? Because I have details. And I mean, serious details. I'm talking energy ratings, literage, multi-flow cooling systems, shelf adjustment, humidity control… Are you all right? How's our national treasure? I've been trying to imagine a scenario where I would purposely put myself in a position to spend a week alone with him. I reckon I would have lasted half a day before pushing him over some cliff and then go—"

Giving up, Clara let Amy continue rambling nonsense in her ear and sent her attention towards a nearby congregation of seagulls instead. She was sitting on a wooden bench in Portree with a scolding hot coffee to warm a gloveless hand. The small township behind her was just coming to life, the winter season not stalling bustling activity.

There was absolutely something suspicious going on with the seagulls in Scotland. She distantly recalled having come to this conclusion on a previous visit to either Glasgow or Edinburgh. On recollection, she thought she might have been slightly alcohol induced at the time, however she decided now it had been an incredibly accurate observation. For starters, the black and white birds were at least four times bigger than the standard, classically sized seagull. Some appeared to be ranging into the medium to large dog category. Which wasn't at all appealing with their pointy, snappy beaks. There were six of the feathered creatures watching her. They kept their distance but seemed interested, staring relentlessly with their suspicious, beady eyes, like her presence was interrupting a general meeting about an upcoming revolt. Somebody should have been monitoring the situation up here.

"Go away," she instructed with a smile, narrowing her eyes at them. A suspiciously well-timed squawk sounded out in response.

"What?" came another unimpressed and scathing voice of reprimand in her ear.

"What?" Clara repeated, snapping her back to her senses and returning her attention to her friend. Her tone switched to something residing in the realms of snarky. "Sorry, Amy, am I going to be allowed to talk or are you just going to speak at me for twenty minutes?"

"Yeah, yeah, calm down. I know what this call is about, Oswald. I'm getting my chat time in now. And who do you think I am, anyway? Want my input, you can fucking pay for it. In cash. My time's valuable."

She rolled her eyes and sighed, setting down the coffee in order to rub her hand across her forehead. Naive of course to forget how perceptive Amy could be. She brushed stray hair from her eyes. "What exactly _are_ you doing right now?"

"Watching a TOWIE repeat and eating a mince pie."

Clara grinned. "Time well spent then. And how do you know what this call is about? I'm just ringing to say hi. No ulterior motive."

"Right," her friend sighed, dramatically sarcastic. "On a Monday morning. Sure."

"Why aren't you at work?"

"Jesus' birthday. I'm celebrating the occasion. What's John like in bed?"

The shameless, offhand question caught her unawares, making her want to both laugh and groan at the same time. Irritation overpowered the amusement. She made sure her formidable sigh could be heard through the phone without obstruction. "Fucksake. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Who else is? Jack? It's a fair question. We're all interested."

"Well don't be," she returned a little defensively. "And we're not sleeping together. By the way."

"Huh?" Amy sounded skeptical. Surprised. "Why not? Waiting until you get married now? Because that would be a little hypocritical based on the last few weeks."

Her friend didn't give her anytime to intervene, continuing in a rather forward and imprudent manner. "Clara, honestly—what a waste of five days. Have you gone all shy around each other? That's cute. Jack told me he sent him that video we've got of you from Ianto's birthday last year. Surely he was all over you after that."

"Yeah, I know what you two are doing," Clara muttered, scowling slightly as Amy made light of another illicit delivery she wasn't aware of.

"You don't have a clue, _darling,"_ Amy stressed, starting to laugh in a way that was far too accurate to what Jack was intent to do on a phone call.

"You need to stop."

"Why?"

"You just do."

"Clara." She sounded offended. "Give us a bit of credit. We're not stupid. It's so light. Has something happened? Do you want me to come and pick you up? I'll be there in about—what? Twelve hours? Wait at the door."

"Not helpful," Clara breathed, pushing back into the bench. Amy had a lingering tendency to treat potentially serious matters in a rather irreverent or facetious manner until she knew what was going on.

"Okay, okay. I'm listening. Serious mode. What's up?"

"It's, ah… John. He's…" She trailed off, suddenly struggling with what she was actually trying to formulate into legible sentences.

"Hey," Amy said in a more careful manner, tone transforming as she noticed the hesitation. "Are you all right?"

Clara ran fingers across her bottom lip, frowning. "Yeah. Yes. Just had a… weird day. Yesterday."

"Okay," she acknowledged slowly when it was clear she wasn't going to get anything more of an explanation. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Great. Well, you always have enjoyed making my job difficult, Oswald."

Clara extended a weak smile. "I've fucked up a bit."

"How?"

She sighed, chewing absently on the edge of her thumb. "Just… by not sleeping with him."

There was a very perceptible pause before Amy responded. "That's a very problematic sounding sentence."

"No, no," she murmured, feeling a slight rush of amusement as she realised the ambiguity of her words. "Not what I mean. I mean by maintaining the idea that we should be friends while not exactly following my own rules."

"Yeah, okay. That's a bit of an extremely terrible idea."

Condescending, patronising, a hint self-righteousness. Amy wasn't bothering to be delicate.

"I've realised that now," Clara retaliated through her teeth before turning her tone accusatory. "I didn't even know I was doing it. Why didn't you tell me not to do that?"

"Remind you not to insist on keeping your relationship platonic? Sorry—does it sound like I've been suggesting you were going to be collecting rocks at the fucking beach all week? Have you told him you just made a mistake? He'll understand."

"It's not as easy as that."

"Why?"

"Because he's…" Faltering, she let an extended moment of silence stretch between them, contemplating a careful sentence. "It's, um… tempting, you know. To ask you."

If her friend was anything, it was almost disconcertingly intuitive. "You want to know what the collective mass media have determined about the state of John Smith? What box we're all now shoving him into?"

Clara nodded slowly before realising Amy was seven hundred miles away and couldn't see subtle gestures. "Yeah," she sighed instead, wiping a hand across her eyebrows.

Amy exhaled, weary but sympathetic. "Guess that means you two haven't really talked about this kind of stuff yet? Or… at all?"

She shook her head automatically but then assumed Amy would understand the tacit silence.

"Clara, I mean… if this is why you're calling, you know I can't have this conversation with you, right?"

"I know, I know," she countered quickly, not wanting her intentions to be misunderstood. "I just want… I'm not after a medical report and a six month prescription. Obviously I know asking you is crossing a line with him. It's just complicated. He's complicated. I can't… read him. Like I usually can with people. And now I'm experiencing… consequences. We're not working. John and me. Because of that. And because I don't know what I want."

Finishing in a weak, tentative way, and almost cringing at how pathetically needy she was sounding, Clara waited, tapping her fingers slightly nervously against the cup in her hand. Silence greeted the following moments and when it was clear there was no impending response, she prompted .

"Amy?"

"Fucksake," she cursed in an undertone. She sounded irritated. Annoyed.

"What?"

"Do you want my serious opinion about this?"

 _"Yes,"_ she growled, impatient. "Obviously. Why else would I be calling you?"

Amy ignored the unnecessary derision. "You shouldn't have gone on this fucking trip."

Clara groaned in her head, explicitly realising she should have known in advance what she was setting herself up for with this call. She shouldn't have been surprised. Gritting her teeth, she waited again for Amy to continue. It took a few moments to recognise she was still intent on her to speak first.

"Want to elaborate then on why you think I should have stayed at home under siege?"

"Do you want to elaborate on what these consequences are?"

"No."

Relating even a mere gist of what had happened in the last two days felt incredibly unappealing.

"Okay then," Amy addressed, snapping into business mode. "At what point after John declaring to the nation that he's in love with you, did you think spending ten days alone together in the middle of nowhere was going to be a good idea?"

Clara paused, scowling. "He's not _in love_ with me."

Amy sighed in an overly exasperated manner. "It's a fucking expression. Calm down. Listen to me. You can't jus—"

"We were fine, Amy," she cut in quickly. "Up until the other night, we were fine."

"Yeah, but you're _not_ fine, Clara." The objection was announced like it should have been obvious. "Neither of you are _fine._ Fuck. Look. I'm sounding like a bitch, I know. And I haven't forgotten I let bais obstruct what I thought was going on between you two. But this isn't th—"

"I didn't go into this with complete naivety," Clara interrupted again, defensive to the reprimand and wanting to insert some rationality before her friend entirely sabotaged the conversation. "I knew it was going to be difficult."

"Are you going to let me talk, Oswald?" came a snapping retort, not in an altogether unfriendly way, simply an acknowledgement of knowing all too well what Clara was doing.

Clara muttered a quick affirmative under her breath and shut up.

"I think you've gone into this in absolute denial, if I'm being completely honest," Amy offered in a breezy, casual manner that automatically grated on her nerves. An intentional move, if she knew her friend. Which she did.

"And now you're offering me some inconsequential problem to fix because you don't want to address what's really going on."

"Is that fucking right," Clara muttered sullenly under her breath.

Amy exhaled laughter. "Yeah, actually. It is right. And lucky for you, I know you. And this is what you've always done, Clara. Same cycles. Same patterns with relationships. You always seem to be under the impression that you can create some perfect, fantasy situation where everything's fine."

This was beginning to feel dangerously close to the keynote presentation she had sat through the previous evening, a few hundred meters away behind her.

"I'm not actually calling for a lecture on how well you know me."

"Well I don't actually care, as it turns out," Amy replied rather pleasantly, uncaring of her discomfort. "You can sit there and listen to me give you some real world advice, or I can tell you about the benefits of a switchable prime fresh freezing function to extend the life of your highly-perishable items. Which is it?"

"Former," she muttered, not exactly thrilled about the choices presented in front of her.

"Thank you," Amy emphasised in an overly smug way.

Clara scowled to no one but herself and then vented her annoyance by glaring hard at a rogue seagull inching its way toward her instead. A rustling of plastic filtered into her ear.

"Right," her friend continued firmly, voice muffled through the biting down on Christmas food and then chewing. "Listen the fuck up. John. He's treated you in a pretty shit way, in my opinion. Lying, obviously, but doing that to you in the studio? Purposely putting you in that situation? I know you're probably both having a bit of a laugh about it, but the reality is, Clara, it was bad. And what he admitted to doing in the past was even worse."

"I know that," she cut in, sounding much more petulant than she would have liked. The last thing she wanted was another goddamn lecture. Unfortunately, the unappreciated voices in the back of her head and the calm composure still circulating her system were telling her she needed to hear it.

Amy ignored the interruption and continued over her. "I get it, yeah, that he's a good man and you like him and he understands what he did was a moral disaster. But those admissions aren't small indiscretions that you're just going to be able to pass over with make-up sex and a few promises of forgiveness. This isn't some fairytale everything-is-okay-now scenario because you've done that. There's no perfect ending where you can both run off and hide in your island retreat. I mean, we're two weeks from the aftermath of that? And you're out playing happy families?"

"I don't know if this phone call is going to help me, actually," she muttered, adjusting uncomfortably on the bench and crossing her ankles.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a dick, yeah? I'm not saying your relationship isn't a good idea. Even from my limited access it's…" Amy made a small sound of disgust. "It's clear you're sickeningly perfect for one another. And if you can help each other—if he's helping you—then that is fucking amazing. Seriously. I'm not trying to disregard the significance of that."

Her friend paused for a moment and Clara closed her eyes while she forfeited the chance to reply.

"It's not difficult to determine the outcome here. You're dealing with these individual emotional disasters, but have gone and forced yourselves into some enclosed, heightened environment where you've got the opportunity to expose everything to each other at once. The two of you have put yourselves in a box. A hot box. You're what—starting to come face to face with some multiplying stack of unresolved issues? And now you've arrived at some tenuous, volatile breaking point because one of you can't handle it?"

Amy continued relentlessly, not giving her any time to interject. "It seems obvious to me that you need to be giving yourselves the space where both of you can deal with this stuff one thing at a time. Slowly. Gently. With room to move. You know what I mean? Just simple things. Being able to leave each other at the end of the night. Or if you're staying, then the possibility to go home in the morning. I guess if you want to be with each other every waking second—then fine. But at least you've still got the option not to."

Exhaling, Clara pulled up her leg and rested her forehead against her knee, turning accusatory when she realised Amy had finished speaking. "Okay, well then where was this advice a week ago?"

"Let me just ring my contacts at the Passive Boyfriend Committee and put you through," she drawled, sarcastic.

"We're disbanding the Passive fucking Boyfriend Committee when I get back," Clara muttered, not really wanting to admit her desperate need for external input, yet concluding the necessity of Ianto and Rory's intervention was now proving detrimental.

"Good." Amy sounded particularly smug about the agreement. "Rory won't let me join and I'd rather destroy something I can't be apart of than let it flourish and prosper."

Clara pulled up the collar of her coat to protect her neck and glowered. This was the type of conversation that swung on a dangerous pendulum. It had all the makings of becoming a serious conflict, and Amy was undoubtedly aware of what she was doing. The last minor fight Clara had conducted with her best friend was around four months ago and brought about by a careless misunderstanding of communication. Rather childishly, the argument had then resulted in approximately twelve hours of mutual, petulant silence until they'd both been distracted by the prospect of something just as minor and forgotten the whole thing within seconds. The last _proper_ fight had been within their final year of university as Clara had finally and forcibly intervened in disgust at Amy's rapidly disintegrating behaviour involving unprincipled liaisons with a lecturer. In the disastrous aftermath, the incident had taken months to resolve between them. Ultimately, however, they were both better off for it. The separation had affirmed just how essential they were to each other. Inseparable even. A long time ago, Amy had appeared beside her in a chance moment on a challenging second day in a new high school; forcibly removed from her already dissipating Northern friends and required to adapt to a new city, a new house and a new, replacement mother that looked at her as if shocked a sixteen-year-old was included with her new husband and home. Following her gaze as another smirking teenager imparted an obvious glance in Clara's direction and passing by with the comfort of young confidence and whatever social privileges had been placed upon him, the tall redhead had turned to look at her, locking eyes with a sly and dangerous grin that had never really left.

 _Fit, yeah, but you can do better._

Years later, in laughter and disgust, they had tried rewriting the fact that their first uttered sentences had been over a _boy,_ but history couldn't be changed, and that was just how it would always be.

At one point in time, the hardline of assumption and a brutally honest approach in departing information might have resulted in the return of the same sort of anger she had launched upon John the night before. The difference here—to her continual annoyance—was that when Amy insisted she _knew her,_ Clara could do nothing but agree. However inconvenient the admission might be.

"What the fuck is this, Amy," she questioned anyway, not quite ready to blindly accept what she was being told.

"This, _Clara,"_ she stressed, "can be your fucking wake up call. All of this, all of your brand new relationship—is a complex situation. But if you're imagining the reason you need to ring me has stemmed solely because you've fucked up a bit by making yourself an unachievable platonic target, or because John has unaddressed head problems that you're struggling with—then you need to return to reality. You're being delusional."

"I'm not being delusional," Clara objected, her usual defences springing up at any hint of personal attack. "I don't think either of those things are just minor inconveniences I'm supposed to leave unaddressed."

"You're purposely missing my entire point, Clara. That's not what I'm saying at all. Look at the bigger picture. Both of those things _should_ _be_ completely manageable. And they will be. But not like this. Nothing will be manageable while you're imagining that everything should be okay. That you should be fine, that there shouldn't be towering, overwhelming obstacles, or that you're not about to spend the next weeks and months still being angry with him or figuring out how to forgive him proper—"

"Amy," she stressed, impatient again. "I _knew_ this was going to be hard. That he was going to be difficult."

"Yeah, you're saying that, but you're still ignoring the issue here. Knowing and accepting are two entirely different things. Knowing means fuck all if you're still going to crush it under fiction. I mean, I've had eight weeks of you blankly telling me you're fine. And you know you aren't."

"Amy—"

"I'm not, Clara," she cut in quickly, assuring and apologetic. "I'm not doing this. I promise. It's just the same thing. You need to accept this is all going to be messy. There is absolutely going to be no simple way through it. Accept that so you can stop molding it into something you think you can control. Because when you get back, there's going to be added external pressures. Things you will absolutely have no control over. Don't forget who he is."

"I haven't," she muttered under her breath, a response which felt surprisingly dishonest.

Clamping her mouth shut, Clara tuned Amy out while she spoke more of the same thread through the phone. She knew where this was heading and didn't want to hear it. Narrowing her eyes, she focused her gaze back on the lingering flock. Probably more of an unsolicited gang, if she was attaching collective nouns. Seagulls were historically untrustworthy birds. The last one she had fed in England was missing a leg and had been pathetically hopping around in front of her, whimpering with miserable cries for food. The moment the bird had procured a rather large and empathetic portion of her lunch, it had revealed its perfectly healthy and perfectly attached second limb. The incident had since destroyed all credibility she had in th—

"Clara," Amy snapped in her ear. "Listening?"

"Not really," she muttered, trying to sound uninterested. "But put an ominous score under that speech and you've got yourself the trailer for next year's underwhelming ITV drama."

"Look, I know you don't want to hear this. You never do. But I don't want you to keep putting yourself in this situation. Carrying on within a normal, controllable-fantasy scenario. It's not going to work. It didn't… work. For you. Before."

Amy hesitated properly, rather uncharacteristically after the manner in which the rest of this conversation had so far been conducted. The context, however, was easy to decipher.

"Glad this is turning into a moment where we can all start coming clean on why my now-dead lover thought it necessary to spend half a year lying to me."

Silence spread in a small, weighted space before she continued. "Well?" Clara pressed, a bitter edge unintentionally entering into her tone. "It's true isn't it? Now that we've all had time to reflect on Dan's extra-curricular activities, why don't the five of us have a team meeting and you can all go around in a circle and tell me what the fuck I did wrong for three years?"

"I'm only trying to help," Amy said quietly, completely backing down from pursuing that line in any further detail.

"Fuck," Clara breathed, putting the back of her free hand into her eyes. "All right, Pond. I know. I seriously do know that. But we shouldn't do this on the phone, kay? This isn't real world advice, it's a 3am drunken confessional session you needed to have with me ten years ago while we stumbled home from town. I need immediate assistance. What do I—" She stopped to breathe out in partial defeat. "What should I do. Now. As in, my very impending future within this 'tenuous and volatile situation'. You think I should come back to London?"

She heard Amy exhale. "Honestly—yeah. I think you should. But it's not my call."

"And if I don't want to come back?"

"Sleep with him."

"What?"

"You heard."

"Amy," she sighed through her teeth, pressing fingers over her eyebrows. "You can't be serious. That's… that's not a solution."

"No, it's not a solution. Course not. But it's probably good idea. Why do you think I've been going on about it?"

"Because you have zero filters and an obsessive-to-dangerous interest in my life?"

Amy paused. "Fair point. But no. Ulterior motive, obviously. I have prescient skills and was trying to divert this from happening without advising you to reconsider going. You wouldn't have listened. Which is understandable. I probably wouldn't have, either."

Clara blinked, running through what her friend was suggesting. "And _that_ was your alternative? We'd be too preoccupied to fight? You're fucking terrible at this, Amy. I don't know why I call you."

Amusement greeted her. "Sex is easy, Clara. Use it. Not as a distraction, but as a way to refocus. It's not going to resolve the things that will need time and space, or trust and constructive conversations. But separation, confusion… stress? It might help breach the divide. Connect, you know? In a different way. Simplify your time together for the next few days. Use all this concentrated energy to be good to each other instead. Share. Share something positive and tangible. Be exhausted. Calm down. Relax. Show… care. All right, feel free to interrupt me at any point now because this is bordering on turning sappy and delicate and I'm not entirely okay with that."

Clara couldn't stop the grin pressing into her palm as she ran cold fingers over her mouth. "Sorry, can I just quickly sum up the new direction of this conversation? Basically your advice to me is to either start sleeping with him or come back to London?"

"Mmm," Amy mused in a contemplative manner. "If you put it like that, yeah… it doesn't sound great, does it."

"Fucking hell," Clara exhaled, helpless with bewilderment. "No. It sounds terrible."

"Okay, okay, _clearly_ it needs to be said within context. And obviously don't sleep with him if you don't want to. I don't need to tell you that."

"No," Clara agreed with a sarcastic edge, rolling her eyes. "I don't need you to tell me that."

"I just mean if it's too early, there's no—hang on a sec. Need to put the phone down. My favourite cat is eating my favourite couch."

Clara exhaled again while Amy left with a string of directionally placed curses. Shifting her gaze back to the glittering sea, she furrowed her brows, squinting. This hadn't exactly gone to plan. Not that she'd _had_ a plan, she just hadn't expected Amy to batter her with such predetermined counsel. A more nuanced approach was technically what she'd been after. How foolish.

"Is any of this even good advice?"

"Absolutely wouldn't have a clue." Her friend's voice was again slightly muffled through the sounds of eating as she returned. "But we've always been like this, right? Just guessing. Just sort of… pushing each other in a certain direction. Like that inconsequential moment when you locked me out of our house to make me go and stay at Rory's. So who knows? There's not always a clear answer. I don't think we always get it right. But we're usually pretty good."

Clara hummed quiet agreement, nodding slowly and staring vacantly at the shifting water. The absence of wind from her position was keeping the chill in the air from breaching too far inside her coat, but created instead a mesmerising effect on the small waves that lapped relentlessly on the rocky shore. Sparkling light glistened and danced in spontaneous, sporadic motion. It was peaceful. Serene.

"I really like him, Amy," she murmured, blinking. "John. Like I…"

Pushing fingers into her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to stop the influx of sudden emotion pressing on her senses. "I seriously like him. I can talk to him. And it's easy. He's so… I don't know. I don't think I've felt like this about somebody before." Clara swallowed, frowning. "I've only known him for a month. It's barely anything but I don't want to… ruin this."

"Hey, hey," Amy murmured, gently consoling before her tone took on a more practical edge. "Clara. Look. This'll be fine, all right? You two will be fine. If you both want it to work, you'll figure it out. Don't forget he tore himself to pieces on national radio for you. And you didn't go to jail for each other for nothing."

"Holding cell," Clara corrected in an absent murmur as Amy went on.

"You've got time now, yeah? Heaps and heaps of time. There's no… rush. When you get back to London, maybe it would be a good idea to see him like you see me. Just for awhile until you can properly figure out what you need and how it's going to work. You know? Few times a week or something. Have lunch. Go for a drink. Make him take you to restaurants we can't afford. Go to Tower Hill and reminisce over your favourite knight."

"Raleigh was executed at Westminster, actually."

"Well, there you go," Amy drawled, sarcastic. "You can chat about all your little dead friends over the other dead-eyed bunch of empty skin husks picnicking on citizen suffering in the grounds. I'll pass you on the way out."

"Glad I've caught you in one of your better political moods this morning," Clara muttered, retrieving her forgotten coffee to take a sip.

Her friend laughed in return, warm and familiar, enough for another smile to start making its way to the edges of Clara's mouth.

"The point is, you can be slow. Snail's pace. Tiny steps. One thing at a time."

Clara nodded absently, biting into her lip. "That's actually what Ianto suggested, too. Slow. Probably should have listened earlier."

"Yeah. Well. It seems like good advice." Amy hummed extended agreement and then paused, suspicious. "Hang on. Sorry, Clara, did Ianto… Did Ianto _give you advice?"_

"No," she lied slowly with a guilty smile she was glad Amy couldn't see.

"Clara! When? Before the wedding?"

"He didn't."

"Yes he did. Fucksake! That hypocritical little bastard! He made us promise! Honestly! You should have _seen_ the way he was treating me and Jack that night before the show. Like we were two belligerent teenagers in his classroom being threatened with exclusion. Okay, well, I guess that's it then. That's the goddamn end of his fucking committee. End of our friendship."

"I've had a really overdramatic twenty four hours."

She heard Amy suppress laughter. "Clara, sorry, whatever pathetic relationship drama you've just had is going to be fucking trivial in comparison to how I'm about to deal with Mr Jones and his self-righteous bullshit. They're back this afternoon, too. I can go berate him in person before they go to Cardiff."

"Say hello from me before you reduce us to four." Clara brought her phone away from her ear to look at the time. Almost eleven. "I should go," she sighed. "I need to… well, I guess by your suggestion, either I'll be on a plane or in his bed by lunchtime. I'll keep you posted on current affairs."

"I can get this set up on a live page for the Graun, if you want. You can update it over the day. It's all been on the record, right?"

"Fuck off," Clara growled with a lingering smile.

"Have I been mildly helpful at least?"

"Not really. Nothing about this conversation was worth my time."

"Some of it better infiltrate your dumb head. All this minor nonsense needs sorting so you can concentrate on the actually big problem you're going to have."

"What's that?"

Amy started a dark, slightly menacing chuckle. "You dealing with the fact that you're not going to be able to go anywhere in public with him without ending up being plastered all over the internet."

"Great," she muttered, tapping her thumb inattentively against her chin as she considered the possibility with mild disgust.

"You take a good picture though, Oswald. On the plus."

"Maybe I'll enjoy the attention."

"Yeah, right. Deep down, you want a quiet, peaceful and undramatic life."

"That's not deep down. That is literally what I want. I want to be boring. I want to be so boring that none of you want to visit me. Ever. I can just be left alone to read and drink tea."

"Then why is everything in your life the exact opposite?"

"That's not my fault, is it," she protested without much expression. "That's because other people keep insisting they want to talk to me. You all just… barge into my life with the intent to make everything as difficult and melodramatic as possible."

Amy continued her dark, knowing chuckle.

"Keep laughing, Amy. But I'm getting new friends when I come back to London. Boring friends. Who only want to talk about traffic and weather."

"Whatever. You'll be crawling back to me after one day. Half a day."

Smiling, Clara let the truth of that statement remain free from confirmation.

"Can I say one more thing?" Amy asked after a short moment of comfortable silence.

"Course."

"You should… Hey. You should keep in mind that not everything is a problem. Not everything needs to be fixed. Lots of stuff can just be… looked at a little differently."

"That finally sounds like proper, sensible advice," she murmured, biting absently into the rim of her coffee cup.

"And," Amy continued, ignoring her, "as usual, if all else fails—start crying and look as pathetic and pitiful as you can."

Sighing, Clara allowed another weary smile. "Terrible, manipulative, reckless advice."

"Yeah? Well it solved all my problems in the summer of 2009, didn't it. So don't reject a tried and tested method. Can you please get off the phone? Christ. It's Monday morning. I never wanted to babysit your demon animal and I don't remember ever signing up to be your marriage counsellor."

Clara grinned out into the harbour, watching the multitude of anchored boats bob and tilt in the small waves. It was about to be an absolutely beautiful day. A tentative sunrise had conquered through lingering cloud, and the sky had now cleared of grey and saturated into a brilliant blue. A seagull squawked conclusive disgruntlement in her direction, and the lingering gang began making a suspicious journey towards the township.


	18. Unsupervised Beverage Access

**Chapter 18: Unsupervised Beverage Access**

* * *

Clara had constructed a very simple plan. She liked plans. There was a task to partake in. A set of instructions to follow. An outcome to achieve. Floundering around in the dark became less of an imminent possibility. And hers was a rather good plan, if she was inclined to adorn it with compliments. She was. It felt rational, non-confrontational, easy and straightforward. She would wait until John had woken up at some point after the next few hours. He would be alert, clear, calm. Rested. After sitting him down in the living room, she would give him a simplified, accusation-free rundown of Amy's hypotheses to their situation. And then simply ask him for a final decision. Leave, don't leave. He wouldn't have to explain or provide anything further. Whichever way he decided, she wasn't going to argue or protest, or pressure for more information. Simply accept his decision and adhere to his wishes. Everything would be entirely out of her hands. When she got back to London—either today, or tomorrow, or at the end of the week, she would figure out what was supposed to happen next. Simple. A good plan.

It was ruined the instant she arrived back at the house.

The front door tore open before her hand even had a chance to reach for the handle. Surprised, Clara was about to take a step backwards before she was dragged inside and subsequently forced to press against it in order to create a fraction of space between herself and the body in front of her.

"Hi," she greeted in a startled murmur, blinking and taking a moment to register what was going on.

John was staring down at her. She met his eyes and then slowly took in his appearance. He had achieved his Monday morning presentation in what looked to be of a time close to three seconds. A white t-shirt was inside out and sticking to his skin, transparent across his chest and stomach. The hem at the front was bunched and tucked accidentally into black jeans. Soap filled his wet hair while darkened curls stuck out at odd angles, dispensing a steady drip of water down his face. _Feral_ was the most appropriate of her descriptive conclusions.

"You know, I'm quite capable of opening doors on my own. You didn't need to interrupt this." She indicated to his hair. How he had even known she had returned while preoccupied in the bathroom seemed to be an imperative question.

No response.

Staring back, Clara tipped her head, regarding him with curious concern. On further consideration, he didn't look particularly well, if she was being completely honest. A little bit too pale, eyes still outlined with a tinge of red and glazed with the continual onset of exhaustion. She sighed to herself and silently swore at him. Awake before he should have been.

"I just went to Portree," she explained when he didn't say anything. "To try and save your watch."

The look he returned indicated he had no comprehension he even owned a watch, let alone thought it necessary to ponder over why she had needed to save it. His following silence concerned her and then trapped her, pressuring one of them to fill the space between them with words in order to counteract his position and the familiar intensity of his stare. Apparently, it wasn't about to be him.

"It got wet," she continued slowly, faltering under his gaze. "Last night. It's old and there's Shakespeare on the back. It's triggering every sentimental value sensor I have. I, ah… I found someone who looked and sounded like they knew what they were doing. We can—you can, pick it up. I've got a card." She gestured absently to her coat pocket and then discreetly pressed harder into the door, attempting again for distance. John sabotaged the endeavor immediately, following forward. She had no idea whether it was intentional or not. He seemed oblivious, just staring in his fixated, concentrated way. All she needed to do was push him back. Uncertainty stopped her.

"Who calls you King John?" she persisted quietly when he didn't acknowledge her words.

"Yes," he said blankly, not answering the question correctly. Tiny droplets rested on his lashes. He was about to get soap in his eyes. The water running from his hair made a perilous path ever closer. "Where did you go?"

Clara began to frown, trying to pull herself together and focus on this behaviour. It didn't come across as anything that might be considered normal. She wished he wouldn't stand so close. "Portree," she repeated slowly. "For your watch."

"I thought you had left."

His voice was low and strained. She stared up at him carefully, shaking her head as another small crease formed in her brow. Definitely not normal.

"John, I wouldn't… I wouldn't just take your car and trap you. Or leave without saying goodbye. Or, leave all my stuff here either. And"—Clara nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen—"I also left you a very obvious and clear note saying I was coming back.

"Which I suppose you didn't see," she added. A safeguard in the unlikely event he would wake up before her return. Obviously, she had made a mistake not sellotaping it to his face.

John made no indication he was aware of any of those things. Shutting his eyes, he tipped forward, closing the small gap and pressing his forehead into hers. The edging on the door was digging into her back. Water dripped from his hair to her face. Droplets ran cold lines down her neck until she realised her skin was beginning to burn. The repeated effect of his proximity was unremittingly disconcerting.

"I drew a picture on it, too," she mumbled vacantly for something else to say in the silence. "For you. It looks like a spotted horse with a long neck. But it's not. It's a giraffe. I just got the leg proportions wrong. You… you should look. Give me some advice."

Fingertips pressed into her neck. Water began carving a pathway to her eyes, insistent for their closure. She blinked to keep them open, unwilling to look away from the rapid decline in her personal space. His fingers clamped around her jaw and tilted her head back against the door. Her thoughts began to scatter. Too close.

He kissed her. Desperate, but not urgent, if there was such a thing. A needy, wanting sort of kiss. Clara responded out of reflex, moving her lips against his own, opening her mouth when he asked silently for more. For a few moments she succumbed to the warmth and rising pleasure of touch, yet spoke when he parted momentarily for air.

"John," she murmured, trying to draw his attention. "We can't—"

He wasn't very interested in listening. Claiming her mouth again, he pressed her back with force, using his body as a tight enclosure. Hands slid to her waist and he ground his hips into hers, making his intentions explicitly clear. Conflict soared through her failing coherency. She wanted him like this in a way she couldn't properly explain to herself. Rough, hard, with a frantic edge. A surging, desperate desire for his other sort of operation. She didn't know why. Curiosity perhaps. Because it would be new, because they hadn't been together in that way, because she wanted to know what it would feel like if she let him really test her limits. Concern rode in tandem with the onset of the advance. None of this had been written into her simple plan. It was in fact, the opposite of the plan.

He tugged at her clothes and she could tell he was frustrated when his first efforts failed. She was wearing too many layers for him to find skin. Grappling with her coat, John pushed it from her shoulders and discarded it carelessly to the floor, forgotten instantly. He pulled at the hem of her jumper and then at her trousers, unable to remain focused on one particular task, yet managed to strip her top-half down to just her t-shirt before she could entirely process it was happening. He barely paused in his kiss, relentless, exploring her mouth like hadn't before.

Stopping him seemed to become the overriding necessity. It cut through everything—lust, desire, want. Trustworthy alarm bells clanged around in her head. She was concerned about this. About him. His appearance, his lack of coherency in speech, and, most worryingly, that he had thought she'd left entirely, completely disregarding the evidence around him. His conduct now didn't feel premeditated. Just a reflexive response.

She wanted to ignore the clanging. Her senses were beginning to shut it off, dedicating focus elsewhere. To how this was about to feel. How inexplicably willing she was to let him do whatever he wanted. He felt good. Too good. Incredible. Everywhere he touched. And he was touching her everywhere. His hands couldn't decide where to stay. In her hair, on her neck, against her breasts. Remaining for only seconds before they shifted, like he was desperate to experience her entire body at once. When they pushed between her legs, she wasn't sure she was going to be able to stop. She stifled a gasp from breaking around his lips. Fabric hindered their true intention. Pushing up hard against her, he began to position her body in the way this would play out with the full removal of clothing. He was going to pick her up. Have her legs wrapped around his waist. Back against the door.

The clanging didn't cease. Only weakened, like an irritating background noise. There had to be some sort of structure, timeline, _plan_ before they went down this route. There were things she needed to say to him first. And she didn't want to take her friend's advice so literally and so immediately. Her views on jumping into bed with him— _pressed against a door with him_ —while they were volatile, differed rather immensely.

Clara swore profusely in her head and forcing herself into action, pressed both palms into his chest and pushed him back hard, creating a gap between them. "John. Just… stop."

She swallowed and took a breath, regaining her senses once his hands and mouth were gone. "Not like this."

Rejection shaped his expression, the instinctual sting of hurt, but it dispersed as quickly as it had come. Remorse replaced injury. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't—" He blinked rapidly, as if he had been pummeled back down to reality. "I know."

Silence spread between them. Seconds of a suspended moment ticked by. Clara wasn't sure what to do. She just stared until she realised she was watching him break.

He felt rather indestructible in the times when he embraced her. A solid, immovable presence. Capable, sturdy. Strong when he needed to be. It was real, and present, but not entirely accurate. There was panic behind his crumbling visage of stoicism. She understood what that looked like. A perceptive mirror image from her own experience. Or maybe she just knew. Weeks ago— _years_ _ago—_ he had done the same, crouched in front of her in a square, grey room, recognising what was happening.

Reacting reflexively, Clara stepped into him and took some of the weight as he wavered on his feet. He was too heavy for her. She used momentum to push him into the wall and managed to hold him until he pressed his forearm into the vertical surface to steady himself. Raw distress molded his features. He dipped his head and hid his face. It was painful to watch. And far from surprising. Part of her, the suppressed part that Amy had reminded her of, had perhaps crushed this down, avoided the reality of what was happening to him, that she was bearing witness to someone completely thrown in the deep end of a pool, devoid of the necessary skills to swim to the edge. Figuratively. And probably literally, if she had thought it appropriate to make further irritating metaphors come to life. A series of separate events that individually, could have been dealt with according to some constructive process, but together—an overwhelming and unsustainable mix. It might have happened without her, or it might not have. It didn't matter. Either way, she wasn't surprised. Just annoyed that he hadn't been a little more well rested to be confronted with the inevitable crux of his crisis.

Without any other means of immediate action, Clara ducked under his arm and put herself into his chest, wrapping herself around his shoulders and pulling him in. He refused her for a few moments and then surrendered, arms falling to return the embrace in a tight, helpless grip. She could probably stumble her way through a makeshift idea of how she was supposed to approach something like this.

"Let's make a plan," she suggested, turning to speak quietly into his ear. "So we can follow it."

Drawing back, she put a hand under his chin, encouraging him to lift up. His watery gaze made her want to consider dedicating her entire life to creating the opposite of this situation. That didn't seem like an appropriate mentality to enter into their next moments with, however. She toned it down. The basics seemed suitable enough. Sleeping. Eating. Cleaning. Exercising. Warmth.

 _Warmth-ing._

She should have been listing these aloud.

"We'll finish your shower first, okay? You're covered in soap. Shave. Get you cleaned up." She pressed fingers into his cheek to run across the first signs of growth. "Dry clothes. I'll make lunch. Then I think… I think maybe you should lie down. Don't have to sleep. Just rest. Yeah? And then we should go outside for a bit. Fresh air. Eagles might be out. It's almost summer today. Then…" She trailed off, not actually knowing what _then._ "Okay, making the next part of the plan will then be the next part the plan. Any questions? Amendments?"

John did nothing but stare at her shoulder. Whether he was listening or not, she had no idea. She ran her eyes over him again, trying to assess his perceptual condition. It was difficult without speech. His eyes were glazed. She imagined he wouldn't stay like this for long. Retreating quickly from another opening of vulnerability he had tumbled into.

Taking charge, Clara took his arm and led him slowly down the hall and into the bathroom, closing the door as she ushered him through. He seemed to be walking on a particular type of autopilot.

"Do you think we spend too much time in here together?"

She smiled and felt a touch of relief when he shook his head in acknowledgement to her light question. Alert enough to know what was going on.

Looking toward the shower, Clara decided the prospect was rather unappealing. "I'm changing the plan," she announced. "How about you have a bath instead? I'll… help. Stay."

She waited for a sign of approval. By the looks of him, he didn't really seem to be interested in making decisions. Giving him another moment to respond, she then shrugged and twisted the taps to let water gush into the white. He stood rather aimlessly beside her.

"You're treating me like I'm a child," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze when she glanced up.

"No," she contended, straightening, glad he was talking. "I'm treating you like I care about you."

"Do you care about me?"

Another of his guileless and genuine questions, mumbled into his chest, although with eyes looking insistently for an answer once the words had left his mouth. She didn't know why he thought it necessary to do this.

"Yes, John," she muttered, trying not to sound exasperated or condescending. "I do."

In silence, they watched the water gradually rise. A normal sized bath compared to his one in London. A one person bath. Two, if the users were prepared to be very close together. She dragged her meandering and inappropriate thoughts back to the present. That wasn't happening either.

Clara tested the temperature with her fingers. "Get in," she instructed quietly, pointing.

Staring fixedly at the taps, John visibly hesitated. "I'll be naked."

"Sure we'll both survive. I'll turn around. You undress."

Doing just that, she looked towards the wall and after a moment of further hesitation, heard him begin to discard of clothing.

"I have actually seen you naked before," Clara pointed out, crossing her arms and touching her chin to her shoulder.

John hummed something that might have been agreement. "I'm shy," he admitted in his quiet mumble.

"You're not shy," she smiled, believing him but knowing somewhere within his fluctuating behaviour he was more than capable of switching on confidence. "In?"

"No. It's too hot."

Clara stifled amusement and then suppressed the desire to simply turn around and pull him into another hug. Clearly, she should have ran him a cold bath and dropped ice cubes in it. John took another few moments for fussing or silent grumbling before giving her confirmation of submersion. A frown was fixed to his features, evidently a result of the temperature. Chest deep in water, he lowered tentative arms to join the rest of his quivering body, scowling as they submerged. He brought his knees up to his chest. Hiding a gentle smile, Clara manoeuvred towards the counter, scanning over his small collection of bathroom necessities. Everything was stacked at one edge in an overly tidy fashion, each replaced meticulously as he used them. She wasn't exactly messy with her own assembly, but compared to his attentive standards of organisation, she might as well have distributed her things with the care of a small tornado.

Taking his razor and shaving cream, she returned to perch on the extended flat surface of the bath, finding it just comfortable enough. Steam rose and swirled with languid consistency and the heat transformed his skin into a pink blush. His arms were wrapped around his legs. A fragile position. She felt tiny fractures of pain dart somewhere in her chest.

"I don't let anyone see me like this." He pointed an accusing index finger at his eyes.

"Not exactly great for the stoic reputation, is it," she murmured softly, dipping her fingers into the water to re-gauge the temperature. If anything, it could have been warmer.

John shook his head and then stared hard at the taps in blunt defiance.

"It can be our secret. I won't tell anyone."

A minimal attempt at a nod, and he turned to look out of the window instead, perhaps dodging her searching expression. Sunlight poured in through the wide glass, casting them both in the steady burn of white light. The ocean was choppy and white-capped, glistening under the sun. On the distant horizon, land etched itself a place within the blue. Beautiful beyond belief, but she couldn't quite find the interest to look for very long. It was difficult to send her attention elsewhere.

Reaching, Clara touched light fingers to his jaw, asking him to turn. "Can I do this for you?"

John brought her back into focus with a series of quick blinks before dropping his gaze to the razor she twisted in her fingers and held up. The offers of assistance seemed to be taking an excessive amount of time to process, as if he were unable to reach a logical decision. Concluding he just needed instruction instead of choice, Clara placed a hand into his chest, gently encouraging him to lean back against the edge instead. He accepted without protest and slowly straightened his legs, adjusting to be comfortable.

"I've never let anyone do this before," John mumbled as she began applying a generous amount of cream to his skin.

"Really?" she pondered, smiling slightly. "I would have imagined a servant comes by every morning."

The returning expression of mild resentment directed at the wall made her smile again. "I like doing it," she told him, moving her hand down his neck. "It's sort of satisfying." She gazed with distant amusement at her applied work of white. "Have you ever had a beard?"

"No." John shook his head, closing his eyes. "I've got a particular image. That would ruin it." A hand lifted out of the water to wave over his face and down his body. "This is it."

"Wet and naked?"

He hummed and considered. "Sure I could sell a few pictures."

"I'm sure you could, too."

Amused, she fell silent and brought the razor to his face. It was a quietly intimate task. She tipped his head gently with her free hand to direct his position and began running slow and careful lines down his cheek. A calm stillness spread between them, punctuated only by the soft grating of the blades and one of the taps dripping intermittently. The tremble in his muscles started to ease. Gradually as he familiarised to her hands, or the enveloping of heated water. Perhaps both.

"Can I tell you how I got the scar on my back?" Clara asked after awhile, running her eyes over the thin red line on his temple which disappeared into his soap-filled hair. "I was supposed to tell you yesterday. A small story of bad decisions."

John nodded as she moved the razor away from his skin.

"Okay," she started seriously, shifting her position slightly as she brought his head down, finishing with one side of his neck. "Well. It was day four hundred and eighty three of the great communist war."

A tiny smile flickered on his lips and she sent an unwitnessed grin towards his profile.

"All right. Imagine this. I'm sixteen. Everyone's arriving at the church in their best dress, and I'm in a leather jacket and eyeliner practically down to my jaw."

John's smile returned, lingering this time on the edges of his mouth. She put fingers into his chin and gently twisted his head so she could begin the other half of his face.

"Dad saw me beforehand but didn't bother to say anything. He just grabbed me around the shoulders and thanked me for coming. He'd pretty much insisted I had to go, but had no way to enforce it. I only went because my gran asked me and I'm… well, I'm a bit helpless when it comes to her."

Clara breathed out, biting into her tongue before continuing, wanting to be cautious about the following word selection. "I was sitting through the ceremony in this… I don't know. In this terrible state. I was so angry. It felt like he was…" An old bewilderment she hadn't entirely lost made its way back through her system, announcing itself with a familiar edge. "Like he was just slamming the lid closed on Mum as fast as he could. He was saying all this stuff in the vows about how happy he was to have found someone he could spend the rest of his life with, and all I wanted was to stand up and start screaming at him. I didn't really understand. I lost him for awhile. After Mum. I needed him and he wasn't really… there. And then I think I just wanted him to explain how he could move on so quickly, except even if he _had_ tried to tell me, I don't think I would have listened. There wasn't an answer I wanted to hear."

John opened her eyes and gazed at her, impassive but without any anticipatory signs of judgement. Clara took another slow breath, chewing on her lip for a moment.

"He didn't talk much after the funeral, and then made all these decisions without… talking to me. London, and a new house, new school, new… everything. He wouldn't put up any photographs of Mum. Didn't want to talk about her. He… yeah. Cut her out. And then cut me out."

Frowning and concentrating on the careful line she was making over his jaw, she avoided the full intensity of his returning relentless gaze. It was hawk-like. He was interested. Attentive.

"I love my dad," she continued quietly, "but he did not do me any favours. Maybe if I had been a bit older I could have had the comprehension and maturity to handle myself better. Understand how broken he was. But I was practically a kid. He was supposed to be looking after me."

Clearing her throat slightly, Clara leant back to look over the outcome of her work so far. His skin had softened in the steam and heat, helping the sharp blade perform its task. "Um… yeah. Anyway. I'm sort of drifting away from the narrative here. So. I'd been seeing this guy. Ethan. For a few months." Clara narrowed her eyes, trying to recall points of information she didn't particularly like thinking about. "We met at school. Dad hated him. For good reason. He wasn't exactly… the best decision in positive influences I could have chosen for myself. And either I'd told him to come to the reception, or he'd just shown up. Can't remember. But I was already a bit drunk when he arrived. We really took advantage of the unsupervised beverage access. He started going on about how he hated his stepdad. Like, um… purposely being provocative. Because he thought it was funny, or was just… intentionally fuelling my anger. It was a bad mix.

"My dad's this gentle, unassuming bloke. But he eventually noticed what was going on and then realised we were drinking. I don't really remember the details. It's pretty blurry. Ended up being a bit of a scene though. Dad threatened him. And, ah, I remember saying…" Clara released half a groan, half a sigh of historic embarrassment. "I don't know what, but I remember giving Linda a pretty extensive and unfiltered rundown of exactly how I felt about her. In front of Dad. And her family. And our family. Friends. She said something back and then I told Dad he was…" Trailing away, she shook her head and cleared her throat. "I remember what I said to him. Might not repeat it." She gave John a weak smile. "Too awful. He just told me to get out. With that… you know. An undertone of compressed fury. So I did.

"This really isn't a good story," Clara sighed. She paused, a little trapped in old concerns.

John breached the following silence, words cautious but clear. "I suppose you… got on your motorbike?"

She raised her eyes to meet his inquiring expression. "Did you make any stupid decisions when you were sixteen?"

He shook his head. "No. I was perfect."

"Course you were," she smiled, running the sharp blades across his chin. His gestures and speech were making her work feel slightly precarious. "Wandering about just chatting with the local animals."

"Motorbikes are dangerous," he said carefully. A weighted statement.

Clara nodded, this time holding his gaze and keeping her expression neutral. "Yeah. They are. Have you ridden one before?"

Another quick shake of his head confirmed her assumptions.

"Why did you get one?" The small question was posed rather casually, not matching the further intent circulating in his eyes.

She knew what he was doing. It was slightly surprising to her however, that he was willing to use the opportunity to bring this up. It required an awful amount of audacity for _him_ to prompt and re-engage this line of discussion. Clara had no intentions of ignoring what he had accused her of the previous evening, yet she was more than prepared to temporarily put aside what he'd said in order to address the wider issue. This was her compromise, a small and subtle story to quietly rectify and confirm his theories without having to spell everything out in big, bold letters. Even so, while allowing caution, John was clearly unable to help himself.

Humming quietly, Clara tipped her head, continuing to abstain from showing any sign of emotion. "You really want to do this now?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she murmured, taking her hands away from his face. "I can tell you."

With an observant expression, she slowly ran her tongue across her bottom lip, contemplating. "Remember the moment that comes after you learn to drive a car where everything clicks into place? When… you start driving with one hand resting at the bottom of the steering wheel, and the other on your knee?"

John considered the question for a moment and then indicated recognition, curious.

"That's an incredible trust in yourself, don't you think? We're not taught to drive like that, and it's not safe, but we become so confident that our focus shifts and we forget we're moving inside a metal death box at seventy miles an hour. The idea we can have our foot on the brake within a fraction of second, or hands back on the wheel before we can even blink becomes so habitual and ingrained, that our subconscious starts driving instead."

Her voice lowered, shifting into something etched with hints of paramount importance to fix his attention. "I like that feeling. And it's heightened on a bike. I think it's because you're smaller and more exposed, and your entire body is in charge of your movement. So when you slip into that unfocused state, you feel more invincible. Untouchable. It feels incredible. Control becomes tangible. You can manipulate it. Force it into something you can use. To go faster, or have the confidence to make decisions you might not have otherwise.

"Except the longer I spend driving, the harder it becomes to stay in that moment. Because _none_ of it is real. The instant something external inserts itself into the peace, that jolt of adrenalised panic ruins everything. Running over a loose bit of gravel, or a car that swerves a little bit too near the centre line. Or… that insidious frustration when somebody's following a fraction too close and I know that if I suddenly had to brake, they wouldn't be able to slam their foot down fast enough to stop the collision. I get removed from the illusion. Something reminds me I can be doing everything perfectly, but really, nothing is in my hands. There is no control. I'm in a constant battle with my subconscious. Every time I'm on my bike, I'm competing for that access to complete command and it feels—Oh my god, John," she sighed, smile breaking into the edges of her mouth as she watched his grave and solemn expression. "Are you seriously buying this bullshit I'm feeding you?"

He blinked, confusion etching over his features. "Sorry?"

"Jesus Christ," she muttered in an undertone, shaking her head as amusement rippled over her face, influencing the inflection in her words. "You're in too deep. I'm going to take you outside. Introduce you to some real life humans. Your psychoanalytic needs an adjustment."

Clara's smile transformed into a grin. "John, contrary to what your idiotic head might be telling you, I bought a motorbike because I didn't want to be in my house. That was it. For no other reason. I could go out at night and just be by myself. I found it peaceful. Comforting. And then it became something I could focus on. I learnt how it worked, how all the parts fitted together. How to fix it when it broke. A distraction. But a good distraction. Not a bad one.

"Nothing else," she affirmed with a helpless smile. "Nothing reckless. Ever. Okay?"

John blinked at her again and then eventually nodded, clearly caught off-guard and floundering as if his thoughts were still catching up. "Okay," he repeated slowly.

Clara wasn't sure if he sounded convinced or not, mainly due to the fact she didn't know if he had even believed what he had said to her last night, or just used it for other motives. He had only been guessing. Either way, clarity wouldn't go amiss.

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah," he whispered, more of an automatic reply than anything else.

"I'm glad we finally agree on something."

"What about your scar though?" His mumbled, susurrant words found their way into her ears.

"Well," she explained in a pleasant, casual tone, "contrary to that reckless comment I made five seconds ago, I did actually make a really reckless and terrible decision."

Clara breathed out and gave him a rather wry smile. "I couldn't drive that night. Literally. I wouldn't have even made it out of the carpark. So my levelheaded, generous boyfriend suggested he could do it. He could drive, but didn't have a licence. That wasn't exactly the main concern though. I mean, you'd have to be pretty stupid to get on the back of a motorbike with a drunk seventeen-year-old. I just handed him the key like it was nothing."

She trailed the tips of her fingers across the water, swirling through the heat. Tiny waves lap against white skin. "It's funny looking back as an adult on your choices as a kid. I was also under the impression I didn't make terrible decisions anymore, but then there was that time I incited a fight on national radio. Maybe I haven't really changed."

Giving him a small and unreturned look of amusement, she took another weary breath and brought the razor up to resume the last of the task. "We got hit because he turned on a red. The oncoming car was turning as well so it went into the side of us. Guess it was probably… inevitable. I don't remember any of it happening. I had pretty serious concussion. Was sick for ages. Um… broke my arm in two places." She drifted her hand over her left forearm to show him where, and then to her side. "Fractured ribs five and six. The bike crushed me a bit and something sliced into my back. Ethan dislocated his shoulder. He was all right, considering. Got off rather lightly in comparison. Although just physically. Not… lawfully." She smiled slightly, not with humour, just old recognition to the myriad of former consequences.

"I ruined the wedding, pretty much. And cancelled the honeymoon. Linda's never forgiven me for it. Not that I would ever expect her to. I apologised later. Properly. But not for years. And Dad… he was so…" Clara sighed again and cast her gaze absently to drift out the window. They really should have been outside. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen the sky so brilliantly blue. "Not angry. Just had that sort of… _severe_ disappointment instead. Which is always worse. At least with anger I could have yelled back. But he just sat in the hospital and wouldn't really look at me. We're very similar, me and him. We like pretending everything's okay when it's not."

John flinched suddenly and she realised she'd nicked his jaw with the blade.

"Shit," she murmured, bringing her hands away. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"Fine," he returned quickly, assuring and pressing his thumb into the cut.

Tipping her head, she tried to gauge how deep it was. "That was bad timing," she admitted, pulling a face.

"Freudian timing."

Clara offered him a crooked smile. "I was being so careful, too. Can I see?"

The blood diluted away into nothing as she replaced his thumb with her own. It was minor, just a tiny slip. John ran searching eyes over her expression. The purpose was obvious and she shook her head.

"I'm a big fan of blood," she told him quietly, dispelling of his suspended concern. "It's one of my top three favourite things about the human body."

"What's one and two?"

She wasn't sure why she put herself in these situations. Fighting a soft smile, she humored his pointless question. "Mmm… fingernails." She held up the back of her hand. "Imagine an alternative reality where we didn't have these. Disaster. We wouldn't have been able to get anything done. Or open."

He smiled ever so slightly, gaze drifting from her hand and back to her face. "What else?" he murmured, slipping into a trance-like stare.

She had no idea. And didn't care. Her fingers lowered and she stared back, becoming trapped in him like always. Blinking, she swallowed and set the razor down on the edge, deciding she had better stop there. "So that's… that story. What do you think?"

"Not great, Clara," he acknowledged in a murmur.

"Yeah," she agreed, sighing. "It's not one I like to share. Amy really… sorted me out though. After that. I was a wreck."

John nodded slowly and stared, first at her arm and then at her side. "You were in the hospital."

"Well… yeah." She gave him a small smile, amused slightly by his specific pinpointing.

"For how long?"

"Ah… not sure. Can't remember. But multiple days because of the concussion. Fractures got me the worst though. Took months before I could breathe without pain."

"What did Amy do?"

Clara lifted her shoulders, letting her slow breath escape. "Just… helped me to grow up. Gave me perspective. Was around when I needed someone. You know. Normal things. Loved me. Washed my hair in the bath. Just kidding. She definitely did not do that. Lean back."

She gestured to the water, asking him to move. Complying, he shifted enough so she could bring his head down to wash the soap from his hair and remnants from his face. He watched her quietly and then closed his eyes again, surrendering without resistance to her touch. She moved her other hand, gently smoothing her palm over his chest. Inhaling for air made his skin break the surface for the few seconds before he released, and the water could once again claim his body.

"I should be looking after you," John mumbled after awhile, turning his cheek into her fingers.

"We can look after each other, you know," she reasoned, giving him another soft smile he couldn't see. "It's just my turn."

Beneath the pink blush, he was very pale. Not pallid, simply the type of white that would have benefited from moments like this in the sun every now and again. She supposed he didn't go outside enough. In winter, locked away somewhere, in his house or in his studio, watching the population hurry by amidst the freezing world instead. And in the summer, perhaps much of the same. Avoiding the heat and sticking to the shadows of trees and high rises before retreating back into the safety of four walls and a door. She had a feeling that without intervention and left alone to his own devices—he would forego sleep and food and self-care, simply let himself be consumed by an obsessive drive until he was finished of his book or song, emerging from his meditative state in a confused daze; disoriented of time and place. It didn't seem like a very healthy thing to her. Perhaps in London, within an elusive future, she could take him outside. Break a repetitive cycle. She liked the idea of it. Watching him squint in the sun while he pointed at ordinary objects and brought them to life. Have him take her hand and lean into her ear, imparting his limitless nonsense and sharing silly jokes. Maybe she could take him somewhere on her bike. Clara smiled suddenly at the thought of suggesting he trust her with that, and then wondered if she even trusted herself enough to transport him down the M23. She was fine with the enclosed space of a car, but unimpeded access to the road gave her pause. The trust of a nation on her shoulders.

John opened his eyes and then slowly sat up, struggling like his muscles were beginning to give way. Water dripped and obscured his vision. Transfixed, Clara watched rivulets run from his pale skin to join the volume below. He leant forward and drew his legs up, placing his forehead to rest.

"I think I'm having a small to medium sized breakdown," he mumbled, speaking quietly into his knees.

"I know," she murmured, noticing each individual heartbeat in her chest as his words filtered into her ears. She ran her eyes over him, concerned but calm. "Do you think we might have put ourselves in a stupid situation? That it's all… too much, too quickly?"

John nodded. A slow movement, but lacking completely in hesitation or pause for consideration. The agreement made a pending relief she didn't know was even present to flood in a wave through her system. She dipped her head and closed her eyes.

"Okay," she breathed in return, feeling—for the first time in awhile—like the ground beneath her was becoming a lot more solid. That was good. That was progress. Small steps.

Eyes shut, John moved, pressing his shoulder into the edge of the bath and resting his head against her thigh. Her trousers began saturating with water, but it didn't matter. She slid one hand against his exposed cheek, and with the other, slowly ran through his hair and then down to his shoulders. His skin was soft and malleable beneath her fingers. The lingering tension in his muscles seem to ease as she pushed into them with gentle caress.

Clara traced back to how this morning was supposed to play out. Not like this. Maybe her plan hadn't really been a good plan. Maybe planning anything was counterproductive. She didn't know. Maybe floundering around in the dark wasn't as bad as it sounded. Maybe, if she could stop grasping for some illusive, all-encompassing light switch, she could accept there might not be one. Instead, there might be lots of little lamps. That seemed reasonable. What didn't seem reasonable was this near constant use of metaphors. She decided it was the last time she was ever going to use one. They were terrible.


	19. The Moths Have Arrived

**Chapter 19: The Moths Have Arrived**

* * *

"Too hot," Clara grumbled, feeling the instant trapping of heat inside the heavy and oversized coat.

"I'm not finished." John looped a scarf around her neck and up across her chin and mouth.

She tipped her head toward the ceiling in attempt to free herself of the restriction. "Can't move my arms."

"Good."

"I was at a November wedding recently and I wore barely anything."

"I noticed," he muttered, crouching to tie the laces on her boots.

As it turned out, John seemed to be under the impression it was a good idea for them both to leave the house for a mid-evening excursion. He didn't seem to mind it had been pitch black for a multitude of hours and the temperature had fallen back into the single digits. Stood beside the front door, Clara was now being subjected to playing dress-up with her overprotective, minimally communicative accomplice.

It was quite possible she had never worn this many layers in her life. Excessive didn't really cover it. John had passed her a complete set of thermals and quietly demanded she put them on. Grumbling, she did as he ordered, making him turn around while she changed. On top of her own jumper and already warm set of clothing, he had insisted she then adorn herself in not one, but _two_ of his useless hole-infused collection. Helping her into the black knit, he had regarded her coat with a look of disdain and brought out one of his—an item that would have fitted in well if she had been planning an expedition to somewhere mildly cold, such as the North Pole amidst a hundred-year blizzard. She stared at him with a blank expression that she hoped would insinuate an implied dose of severely unimpressed. John pulled it around her shoulders and gave attention to the zip, a tiny smile lingering on his mouth.

So far, as far as she could tell, Clara had successfully navigated the afternoon and evening. Everything had been relatively simple—more so, she assumed, because John had been unconscious through most of it. After making his indistinct but relentless protests known when she reminded him lying down was the next part of the plan after lunch, he silently conceded when realising she was suggesting she would remain beside him. On his side, he grumbled something about _not going to sleep_ , and then almost immediately drifted into unconsciousness, breathing peacefully like he'd never been awake in the first place. Pulling the lingering blanket over him, Clara had picked up her book-traitor and rested her arm along his shoulder, reading while he napped. He slept much longer than she had expected, an hour merging into two, and then four, and finally six. She drifted back and forward from him, mostly staying, but using the time and clear weather to explore the grounds around the house as she hadn't yet properly done, answer pending emails from work and then making a rice-based dinner that couldn't be rejected later due to a certain person's fussy and temperamental consumption requirements.

The sun was long gone when John eyes opened again, darkness now dominant in the early evening. When he finally drew himself into sitting, Clara could tell he was in a much better state. The red in his eyes was gone, and while the room was lit solely by the flames beside them, there was enough light to recognise he wasn't so pale. A frown fixed to his features as he stared at her, blinking like he wasn't sure where he was. She smiled back against his confused, disoriented expression. Glancing at the clock, she gave him the time, and when he didn't seem to register the numbers, added _Monday,_ _Skye_ and _Clara_ for clarity. It clearly meant nothing, and mumbling something she didn't hear, he then turned into her and lowered his head, curling himself into her lap and closing his eyes like he was regretting waking up. He probably wouldn't have done that if he was fully alert. She took advantage of another of his innocuous moments and put her fingers into his hair, gently stroking through with careful consistency. He wouldn't stay like this. Consciousness and embarrassment would get in the way and he would avoid her gaze, mumble words that were both an apology and an excuse for unintentional actions before awkwardly distracting himself elsewhere.

"There's moth monsters," Clara protested, now wanting to discourage this expedition into the dark while he helped her into thick gloves. "Car-sized. I've seen them. They'll eat us."

"I'll protect you," John murmured.

"No, you'll just… end up convincing them you're their friend. You'll go and live in the moth-cave. Become a moth-man. Flapping around banging into glass and light bulbs."

"I don't think moths live in caves," he pondered absently. He was lingering on her hands. It wasn't possible to dismiss it as an accident. His fingers moved slowly over hers and then to her wrists as he covered them with the gloves.

"Why don't we watch a film instead?" she tried, dragging her attention away. "You can choose. I'll let you talk all the way through it. Let's watch Attenborough tell us about monkeys."

Deterring him from the imminent outing wasn't working. Ducking away for a moment, John returned with a blanket and began walking around her, circling the thick material to completely wrap her body.

"Seriously?"

He didn't bother answering, only proceeding to tuck the remaining corner into the space below her chin. He took her hat from where it hung on the coat hooks and pulled it firmly onto her head, covering her ears.

"Okay," he murmured, brushing her shoulders conclusively with his hands, satisfied. "You're ready."

Clara gave him the most irked expression she could manage through what was left of her exposed features. "I can't move."

"We're not going far."

"What about what you're wearing?"

He was dressed in nothing other than a single jumper and his open grey coat. "Physically superior to ev—"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Shut up."

A smile curved his mouth for a second or two, fading when he ran his gaze over her. He exhaled quietly and ran knuckles over his jaw, tipping his head. His grey eyes were swimming with lingering warmth. "You probably won't get cold now."

"No," she agreed, a little more absently than she would have liked. This might have been an overly excessive exercise, but the intent was making her chest hurt. "Not while I'm living inside the sun."

"You have to close your eyes," he instructed, turning to put his hand on the door.

"Not necessary. It's an endless void out there."

John smiled and stepped back into her, pulling the front of her hat down over her face. "I'll guide you."

"With what? Did you just evolve infrared?"

The front door opened and she was then cautiously led down the front steps by a securing hand around her shoulders. Gravel crunched beneath their boots. His path led them around to the front of the house. Stones switched to grass. Walking while enveloped in an entire wardrobe wanted to be an unnecessary struggle. The purpose of it worked however, cold stalling to breach the myriad of layers protecting her skin.

"You're going to regret hindering me like this once the moths attack."

"I could punch fifty moths in the face," came a resolute reply. "Are your eyes closed?"

"There's literally an obstruction over my face that _you_ put there."

"You're so grumpy," he murmured, tightening his grip and pulling her closer.

She grinned. "I'm not sure what I've done to give you the impression I like spending my evenings wandering around in near-zero temperatures when there's a perfectly good fire I could be sitting beside while someone makes me tea on demand."

The grass underfoot switched to something that wasn't grass. A plastic sheet, by the sounds of it. "Sit," John instructed, directing her down with his hands.

She smiled to herself. He was very prepared. If it had been twenty degrees warmer and she had been wearing twenty less layers of clothing, this would have been incredibly romantic. Clichéd perhaps, but it was one of those things that had acquired the status for good reason.

"Are you getting cold?" he mumbled beside her ear, already a little worried.

"No," she conceded, slightly annoyed she couldn't use the temperature as an excuse to complain while she was dressed like this.

Hands pressed into her shoulders and guided her gently onto her back. The ground was hard beneath the plastic but her head dipped into something soft. A pillow. She felt John stretch down beside her and prop himself up on his side. Weight of another blanket lowered over her. Excessive. Caring.

"This better be the best view I've ever seen, Smith," she muttered as he made to uncover her eyes.

"Oh." John paused and then sounded a little disheartened. "How'd you know?"

"Why else would we be out here?"

"It was _supposed_ to be a surprise."

"I'll pretend to be surprised."

"Not the same," he grumbled.

Clara felt him roll away onto his back and imagined he was probably scowling. Arms crossed over his chest and glaring up at whatever Scotland had to offer on a clear night. The thought made her grin. "Are you sulking?"

"Yes."

Her grin increased. Trying at first to move her arms—a failed attempt—she resorted to rolling into him so he was required to give her some sort of attention. "I want to see."

"No."

"John."

No response.

"Fine," she shrugged, feigning disinterest. He wouldn't last long. "Describe it to me then."

A long and obvious pause extended between them as he clearly considered whether or not to engage in her games. He sounded indignantly grouchy when he finally spoke. "Twinkly lights. Quite a few."

"Wow. How incredibly _fascinating."_

"Stop it," he chastised.

Clara could hear the compressed amusement his grumpier tone was trying to hide. Smile on the edges of her mouth, she returned to lie silently on her back, waiting for him to concede. It took another minute, his stubbornness unable to release him with instantaneous effect. She didn't mind waiting. He moved closer, indiscreetly, like he was shifting to be comfortable. His knee touched to hers and then his shoulder. She could hear him breathing, quietly as though anything louder would interrupt the natural order of their surroundings. Around her, the night wasn't as silent as it had been the previous evening. Distant waves crashed over rocks far below. The wind from earlier in the day was still lingering, a light breeze now, but enough to ruffle the edges of the plastic sheet.

"I thought I wouldn't be able to show you," John mused, giving in and carefully pulling back her hat. "The weather has been getting in the way."

She'd forgotten what this was like. It had been too long. Difficult in London—light covered, cloud covered, eyes on the Earth, on people and buildings, not quite breaching the roofs or treetops. Whatever the reason, it was a distant memory. There was no need to pretend to be surprised. She was. What she had conjured from some prior recollection wasn't adequate to replicate what was above her now.

Everything was stars. Without light pollution, the sky was left to its natural vista, utterly black and utterly bright. Her breath caught and her eyes glazed over instantly, the unexpected beauty of the sight rendering her speechless for a moment.

Something of a question drifted into her ears, but she didn't quite hear the words. Blinking, she thought she might have murmured some sort of absent agreement. Her breath expanded in front of her, distracting for a fraction of a second before her focus returned above. There was no tree cover or hindrance of any high structure. Everywhere she looked, thousands of twinkly lights bursting with glittering luminosity.

Clara huddled a little further into the blankets, feeling tiny. Dragging her eyes away, she turned to the man beside her. It was almost bright on the ground. Somewhere behind them, the moon shed its white light. She could make out John's features without any real difficulty, his fascinated expression and searching gaze over the universe. "I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you can probably name everything."

"Yes," he mumbled, voice degraded and gravelly. "Well, not everything of course. But all the main lot." He pointed toward the horizon. The sea was hidden from their low perspective. "Mars, Venus and Saturn rise a few hours before the sun. We're a little early. But Jupiter…" He drew his arm toward him and pushed at his coat sleeve, looking for the time. Even if his absent watch had been attached around his wrist, she would have been impressed if he could have read the hands. "Oh," he murmured, realising. "Well. It should show up soon."

Her eyes tracked a satellite for a few moments and then shifted elsewhere, finding what she knew, the constellations that once seen, couldn't be forgotten. Their unique but diminutively changing positions.

"See that hazy bit there?" John described quietly. "Above the cluster?"

Clara nodded, although honestly hadn't a clue to where he was pointing.

"Andromeda. 2.5 million light-years away. I'll take you there one day. Show you round. Did you know it's going to collide with our galaxy? It's heading towards us at sixty eight miles per second."

She hadn't known that. Great. "Is this happening in the next few days, or do I have a couple weeks to prepare?"

"Four billion years."

Smiling, Clara thought John would now be intent on giving her every piece of information he knew about the approaching galaxy, beginning as he usually did, with coherent, comprehensible facts, before merging into what was just white noise, numbers and statistics that didn't really mean anything to her, erudite knowledge she would never need or have cause to appreciate. He kept quiet however, and so she drifted instead, the stars blurring across her vision as her real attention became captured by his presence beside her, the touch of his shoulder through the layers of clothing and the meagre inches of space between the rest of them.

"It's funny that I met you," John said in a soft tone, suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence.

Clara brought herself back to the present and dropped her eyes to meet his. "Yeah?"

A quick nod. "You were very unexpected."

She ran her gaze over what she could see of him, observing his soft but slightly guarded expression. "I thought I'd never see you again. After jail."

He frowned. "Why?"

Clara tipped her head, contemplating. "You're just… you, I guess. The Doctor. National institution. And you shouldn't have really… had any cause to want to see me again."

"I wanted to see you again."

"I know," she smiled quietly, turning upwards again before deciding she would rather look at him. "It's just—it's one of those weird things. You're very famous. Difficult to imagine it really happening." She narrowed her eyes, curious of his interpretation. "How'd you get _this_ famous?"

John shrugged again, smiling with a subtle authenticity while he considered a response. "Good looks."

Clara tried to hide her instant smile, ducking her mouth into the folds of the blanket. He pushed fingers automatically through his hair in attempt to flatten it. A fruitless undertaking. Unattended to, his curls had dried from earlier in the day into the most unruly of manners.

"Do you think I'm handsome?"

A more speculative question than anything resembling a request to boost a hungry ego. Blunt honesty probably wouldn't go amiss at the present moment. "I think you're beautiful, actually. Like… it hurts a bit. To look at you."

"So handsome I'm breaking your eyes. I'll take it."

"You already knew that though," Clara continued softly, feeling a little shy and watching him fail completely at the pointless task he was undertaking with his hair. "I told you."

"You've told me twice. But the second time I believe you were mostly asleep."

"I suppose spouting compliments while unconscious isn't the worst thing I could've done."

"I'll let you know if the opposite comes into effect."

She didn't know what that was supposed to mean. The insinuation that she would be present beside him for that to happen was obvious. But, an accident perhaps, or slip of the tongue. Or it might have meant nothing. Just a quick and natural response to continue conversation.

John glanced at her when she didn't reply and then directed his eyes back to the sky. "I think you're beautiful too," he said quietly, carefully. "But I told you that as well."

"Mmm. I guess I remember you mentioning something."

He smiled at her offhandedness. "I've told you three times. Four if you count the time I said it twice within a few seconds."

"Glad you're keeping a tally on these things."

"Can't help it. Sticky numbers."

Clara hoped the sky wasn't shedding enough light to expose the heat creeping into her cheeks. She couldn't tell. It probably was. He could also be rather observant. Trusting it was inconspicuous, she turned her head slowly back to observe the sight above. That specific compliment from him continued to make her incredibly shy. Which was both inconvenient and annoying. She didn't do _shy._ John relieved her slight distress by continuing to speak.

"Did you—" He swallowed and cleared his throat but still managed to mumble his way through the rest of the sentence. "Did you mean what you said last night?"

"Which part?" she queried, assuming but wanting him to confirm.

"The nice part. The nice things you said about me. In the bathroom."

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

"Okay." There was a notable pause before he continued. "You said I was funny."

Another tiny smile pressed on the edges of her mouth. Out of everything he could have specifically addressed, she probably should have guessed that this would be his first port of call. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"You must have misheard," she contended, shrugging. "I would never say that."

"You did."

"Didn't."

"So you don't you think I'm funny then?"

She shook her head slowly, congratulating herself on doing a good job of keeping a reasonably straight face.

"I think I am," he considered casually, resting both palms on his chest.

Clara decided not to reply, just left him to mull in his own opinion. He tapped a slow rhythm over his coat with his fingers. She thought his hands must have been getting cold. Exposed to the elements. He didn't seem to mind. In this proximity, it was difficult to have him here like this and not succumb to moving completely into his body. She wanted to touch him. The gap between them in the last twenty four hours had been shrinking rapidly.

"I don't actually have any nice things to say about myself," John muttered with a sigh, pressing his head harder into the pillow and moving side to side. "I don't think I'm a very nice person." He continued speaking before she could consider how to reply to that statement. "Once I tried to draw every star."

"How'd that go?" She let him swerve and dodge around the subject as he wanted, deciding it was probably best not to try and lead him somewhere he didn't want to go. He would talk if he wanted to. If not, she was quite happy to lie here and listen to fragments of arbitrary information.

"Not well." John exhaled like he was remembering a former frustration. "It was very hard to keep track. And I couldn't see what I was doing in the dark. I also recall running out of paper."

Always, his pathetic, endearing bits of guileless nonsense made her chest tighten and a fond warmth flood through her system. If she hadn't been constricted in a blanket, she might have just put her arms around him. Find a patch of skin and breathe heat into his exposed features. Limited in a physical response, which might have been a good thing, she moved her leg instead, letting her foot press into his.

"I'm very good, aren't I," John claimed quietly, lifting a hand to point behind them at the house.

Assuming he was referring to his artwork inside, Clara nodded, amused by the leading question. He wasn't after compliments. Just an iteration of fact. "Yes," she agreed. "How come you've never shared? Wouldn't people be interested?"

The query was obviously one that had been posed before. Multiple times perhaps. "I just… wanted something that was mine. I share music. And I always have to answer the same questions about songs. I'm a robot. Sometimes it feels like I've been repeating the same thing for twenty years. So I suppose the answer is, I don't like answering questions."

"Noted," Clara smiled, watching him continue to shift his head against their pillow like he was struggling to be comfortable.

"I don't really know what to do with them when I'm done. Frame some…" John waved again at the house where numerous pieces had been displayed. "Give some away. I've mostly just ended up with stacks lying about the place. But that's okay, I suppose. I prefer creating to admiring. Like Lego."

"Lego?"

"Yes. I only enjoy the building part of Lego. Not the playing part."

Clara narrowed her eyes with growing amusement. "Do you… play with Lego?"

"Clara," he smiled in reprimand, realising the insinuation. "Not by myself. I'm an adult. With Eddie's kids. He's got two. They like Lego."

"Right," she accepted, smiling back, enjoying the little bits of information he was departing. "Do you like writing songs more than playing them on stage?"

He frowned at the possible cause to reconsider the logic of his theory. "Mmm… no. And I probably would build Lego by myself." The admission caused small, sheepish smile to shape his mouth. "If someone gave me a box."

She thought he probably would too.

"Louis is good at it," John announced suddenly, bringing his knees up and together.

"Painting or Lego?"

"Both. I used to build Lego with him, too. But, drawing. He's very good. Different to me. Design. Graphic art. I was hoping he might pursue it after he finishes school next year. He doesn't really know what he wants to do."

John exhaled and ran fingers over his chest. "Donna toured with us when he was young. She would sit him in the wings with earmuffs on and he'd draw us playing. One of our album covers is part of a picture he drew when he was ten. We paid him with tickets to a Fulham match. Which he was ecstatic about at the time, but we're still waiting for him to figure out it probably wasn't fair compensation."

Smiling, a hint of a smirk touched his lips. Silence spread between them.

"He used to be very little," John murmured after awhile, a touch absent. "He'd fall asleep between equipment boxes. Not sure how. But I'd come straight off stage and pick him up. Carry him to the hotel. I liked it when he was there. Because I could give him all of my attention. Look after him. River and I brought him up here sometimes. In school holidays. He kicked his football over the cliff once. He said it was an accident, but I think he did it on purpose. Just because he could. He does things like that."

The absent expression on his face dropped away quickly and his brows creased with an old type of concern, lingering as he continued. "His dad left completely when he was eight. Hasn't seen him since." John shifted on his back, like he was suddenly uncomfortable in what he was saying. "I think for the first couple of years he didn't quite understand. And then just gradually realised he'd been abandoned.

"One trip up here… There was one trip he thought it necessary to hammer a box of nails through all four tires of my car. Either he didn't want to leave, or was angry at me. I assumed it was both. And, ah…" John paused again and scrubbed the back of his hand against his forehead for a moment. "I had multiple guitars in the house at one stage. He chose the one I liked the least and decided it would be better suited to join his football on the rocks."

Breathing out, he then smiled, a sincere, helpless expression. "My small, juvenile vandal. He's broken so many of my things. I always assumed he was testing me. Trying to find my limit on how far he would have to push before I snapped back and gave up on him."

"I can't really imagine you having a limit," Clara murmured, shifting so she was on her side.

"Well." He swallowed, hesitating. "No. I didn't. I don't. I let him break what he wanted and just… helped him clean up afterwards. When all his anger melted into regret and remorse. We would pick up glass and then, ah… I would show him how to make something. The counterbalance. To even out the universe."

She drew her eyes to the cliff and watched a small, defiant child dragging a heavy guitar behind him before launching it determinedly over the edge. Smiling to herself, she tried to decide on what John's immediate expression would have been, had he witnessed the event. She settled on curious. Fascinated even, elbows propped against the fence as he leant to observe the wooden fragments of his broken instrument.

Clara bit into her lip while his eyes scanned the twinkly lights. It probably wasn't the right time for this question. But she wanted to know, and she wanted to keep him talking. It was prying and perhaps intrusive, and yet despite that, it felt safe enough to ask. "Did you… and River not want kids?"

He shook his head against the pillow. "She thought about it at one point. But it was always career first. And I… don't. I never have. She knew that. I wouldn't have been… good. For anyone." He cleared his throat and kept his gaze fixed on the sky. "It's different with Louis. Because he's Donna's. Not mine. He's not my responsibility."

A complicated area. She didn't really have a follow up question. John filled the gap instead. "I'm struggling with River," he whispered, clasping his fingers together at his chest.

A clearly difficult confession. Clara breathed out slowly and considered her options. This was beginning to feel constructive. "You can tell me about her, if you want," she offered quietly, keeping her eyes on him.

"I don't know how."

"Start easy. How about… if her and I had met randomly in a bar, would we have gotten along?"

Evidently, this was not the question he had expected. He blinked and looked at her. "Um… probably. Different interests, but, yes. She's very good at being social. Talking. Chatting. Everyone likes her. You would like her."

The internal musings of her ungovernable mind provided a completely different answer. Clara had a suspicion that if John hadn't been in the midst of a messy divorce the day they had accompanied each other to jail— _holding cell_ —all she would have felt towards his now ex-wife was an unhealthy amount of jealousy and probably not liked her because of it. She didn't need to let him know that. She nodded instead, giving him an accepting smile.

"She looks nice," she offered, sincere. "Even if she could tear me to pieces."

John frowned, but from what Clara could make out, he didn't seem entirely sure. Or sound very convinced. "She wouldn't."

Her smile was beginning to transform into a grin. She wanted to laugh at his innocent transparency. "She would. I know what women are like. I know what _I'm_ like. And I know what I would've wanted to do to me if I were her. Something we have in common, I think. You're a difficult man to give up."

Another quick smile in his direction, but it was weaker this time, dropping quickly from the edges of her mouth.

"Why?" His words were slow and cautious. Even a little desperate. An odd mix.

She shrugged, although it was perhaps unwitnessed beneath the multiple of layers of clothes and blankets. "You check all the boxes."

"What boxes?"

"Tall. Handsome. Mysterious. Scottish."

The perplexion on his face was unmissable, even in the low light. Alluring traits he now seemed to be genuinely unaware of, despite instances of prior referencing. "Rich?"

Clara grinned. "Rich," she added at the request. "Knows a ridiculous amount of detail about snails. What's not to like?"

"My personality."

She sighed to herself. Should have known he would be inclined to answer rhetorical questions. She decided not to correct him. He was talking. Starting an irrelevant argument to convince him otherwise might have the opposite effect. He on the other hand, didn't seem to be of that mindset.

"Is that why you like me? Because of those things?"

Clara wondered how close she was to grabbing his shoulders and yelling frustration into his face. Old habits. Her rather explicit answer to this question, spoken in the lower regions of the shower barely twenty four hours ago, had evidently been forgotten.

"Mainly it's the money, John," she muttered. "I'm seducing my way into your bank account."

A small, weighted pause settled between them. She could _hear_ his brain working, racing through every possible response or reproach he could give to that sort of comment.

"You should probably stop trying to _give_ me money if that's the case." His words were laced with a wry edge that made her want to grin. "You're going backwards."

Clara allowed herself a small expression of amusement and then filled the empty space when it expanded, softly encouraging him back on track. "Miss her? River?"

John swallowed and then nodded slightly, rubbing knuckles into his jaw. "I moved to Kensington in January. So I've had all year to adjust. But I've lost her now. It feels like I've lost her. I don't have any right to feel like that. But I do. She's been a consistent part of my life. Divorce had turned out to be rather difficult."

"Maybe you could still have some sort of relationship," Clara suggested slowly. "I mean, like… friends. Or something." She had no idea what _something_ was.

John shook his head, but then contradicted himself in speech. "Maybe. Maybe later. I would like to see her sometimes. If she wanted to. Just to say hello."

To her disgust, Clara found herself slightly resenting having voiced the idea. She had absolutely no reason to be jealous. Yet she felt the distant pangs of heated possessiveness taking its grip around her. The hot, prickling burn. She cleared her throat. She needed to get over that. Quickly. Very quickly.

"Coffee," she suggested. "You should get coffee sometime. Reminisce about the moment you…" Trailing away carefully, she reconsidered where she was taking that sentence. "I've got some very risky material about you and River. Might keep it for another day."

John turned his head and smiled at her, a lingering and gentle expression. "Can't be worse than me banging on the bonnet of my car."

Clara sighed and then matched his small smile. "No. Suppose not."

"Why do jokes not hurt?"

She expanded out his question for her own dark amusement. "Why do I think it's funny instead of horrifically traumatic when you start facetiously referencing the means in which my boyfriend was killed?"

He ran her eyes over her and then gave a quick, decisive nod for clarity.

"It is sort of weird, isn't it," she smiled. "When you think about it. But I suppose it's because of…" Clara narrowed her eyes, considering. "I guess it's trust. It's like… you're holding me out over the edge but I know you're not going to let go. Dangerous, but safe at the same time. That makes sense, right? It breaks a pattern, too. It lets me attach other emotions to it, rather than just… grief. Or shock. And, nothing is ever just one thing. Shakespeare's tragedies are full of comedy. It's replicant of life."

"I just wanted you to say I was funny, Clara," John murmured when she gave him back her gaze. "Not begin bullet pointing a dissertation."

She grinned instantly, knocking at his foot with hers. Idiot. It felt like he was about to start playing with her. His usual self. They could trade insults and tease. Laugh properly. But perhaps not. Before she could retaliate with a scathingly accurate comment to his hypocritical nature, John reached out a hand, pressing fingers into her forehead and brushing away strands of hair escaping from her hat. Warm fingers counteracted the wind. He moved closer, only a fraction, but noticeable enough. "Cold?"

Clara shook her head, watching his dark eyes. There was no definition, no greys and blues and greens, only shadows and glimpses of white that weren't his. Just reflections. He came closer again, turning onto his side, body pressing against hers. Her heart pounded in her chest and her throat went dry. Swallowing did nothing to ease it. His fingers remained on her face, shifting from her forehead to her cheek and then coming to rest over her jaw.

"Can I tell you something?" came a small whisper that felt like it had been spoken directly into her ear.

"Anything."

He touched her cheek. "I go to Louis' football matches. In the weekends. Sometimes Donna can't go. Which means I can't go." Light fingers tapped in a repetitive way over her skin before he retracted his hand to tuck under his chin. "All the people. I need someone else there." He sounded embarrassed. His voice dipped into something very low. "It's silly, isn't it."

Clara shook her head, still fervently wishing her hands were free.

"I don't like people touching me," he continued quietly, each syllable dragging like the words were resisting coming out of his mouth. "At all. Anywhere."

The space left after his slow speech filled her with confusion. It was equivocal, incomplete and left purposely for her interpretation. Unsure, she brought her knee away from his where it rested against his.

"No," he mumbled, reaching instantly to return her leg. "Not you. I let you sleep on my shoulder in jail. That was strange." He glanced up to give her a weak smile. "I just mean, that's one thing. About me."

"Okay," she murmured softly, running her eyes over him.

"I have to shake a lot of hands. That's all right. But it makes me uncomfortable."

John extended his arm toward the sky and made the corresponding movement, quietly acting out a rather condescending scene. "Thank you _very_ much. No, it's actually five. How many do you have? Ah, well. You should have tried being a bit more conformist and introspective. The Americans don't appreciate music-of-the-lad, do they. Of course I'll sign an autograph for you. What's that? Your brother wants one, too? Who do I make that out to? Liam? Great. Fuck off."

Clara smiled helplessly, wanting to release a sigh of amusement, but quickly bit into her lip to keep herself silent. She didn't want to interrupt.

"I'm not particularly good at sleeping either," John went on in a low voice. "Quite bad, actually. Sometimes, I just can't. I can't switch off. For days. It makes me sick. And stressed. It's happening now. And, ah…" He drew in a breath, blinking. "There's other things, too."

Clara gently prompted him when the silence between them grew. It didn't feel as if he had intended to stop speaking, just that he didn't have the words to proceed. "I think you might think a little differently than me."

A small smile touched the edges of his mouth and he lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug. "Maybe. I only think about you, anyway."

Another swerve, but that was his prerogative. "Me?" Clara narrowed her eyes, amused.

"Yes. Just you. All the time."

"Nothing else?"

John shook his head, hand moving slowly against his chest, fingers scraping his neck.

"What about… animals and things. Manta rays."

He hummed and seemed to change his mind. "I guess I think about manta rays."

"Music?"

"And music. Guitars. I'm always thinking about guitars. But mainly you. So unless you only think about yourself, we do think differently."

"I probably think about myself more than I should," Clara smiled, watching his dark eyes.

"Well," he said slowly, cautiously, "there's three mirrors in your bedroom. Do you know what the official medical term for that is?"

"I do actually," she declared, a further smile pressing on her lips. "It's called Dorian Gray."

His eyes narrowed. Amusement seeped into his tone. "Quite right. Narcissistic egomania."

"Hubris obsession."

"Pretentious vanity."

"Conceited exhibitionism."

"Ostentatious… arrogance?" John pulled a face. "I'm running out. Personal adulatory?"

"American," she offered, sending him a dangerous grin as he bit back a tiny bout of laughter before pretending to whistle at her daring. "I stereotype based on a particular friend."

"Well, it's not exactly keeping in line with Brit rules, is it. We'd have to emigrate if that was our attitude."

John grinned for another moment until the curve on his lips turned soft and lingered as he gazed at her. Very gently, index finger like a feather, he traced over her mirrored smile, extending it up her cheeks. "Emotions are difficult. Sometimes it's like… staring at a blank page. I have no idea."

He pressed his palm flat against her skin and ran his thumb beneath her eye. The intimate gesture felt absent, like he wasn't entirely present in his actions. She wanted her arms free. To pull him in. Lie and say she was cold, use the temperature as an excuse for touch.

"I've had a terrible year," John murmured before taking a deep breath of the frigid air between them. "I suppose… I mean, within reason. Comparatively, you might have one up on me."

Clara hummed. "I was actually having a really great year until two months ago.

"Although," she added, the edges of her mouth curling slightly as he nawed on his bottom lip. "It's not a competition. But if it was, I would win."

John lifted his eyes to give her a weak smile. "You win," he agreed softly.

Sighing, he rolled away from her and onto his back, putting one hand behind his head, the other on his chest. "In my fame-distorted, awfully privileged version of reality, it's been a disaster. Want to know how I spent last Christmas?"

Clara nodded slowly. He turned his gaze towards her properly, curious. "Were you in London?"

"No." She shook her head. "Blackpool."

"Oh. Well, it snowed here. In London, I mean. On Christmas eve. I say _snow._ London snow. Mostly a bit of slush and water that's been in the freezer for ten minutes, yet the whole city reacts like we've suddenly relocated to the Arctic. But that has nothing to do with anything. It was just the only good thing. I spent the rest of it being ousted."

He bit into his lip. "My sister refused to let me back into my own house. Hamish and Ed told me I'd fucked up the last fifteen years of their lives. And River…" Sighing, he closed his eyes briefly. "All my own fault of course. I suppose it was inevitable she would find out. I followed her back home. To find everyone I loved arriving for dinner."

John breathed out humourless amusement and slowly shook his head. "I sat on the footpath later and cried. In the snow." He raised his eyebrows and met her gaze. "Bit pathetic?"

Clara didn't answer.

"I think it was," he mused, lifting his shoulders as the weak smile—or perhaps it was a grimace—fell from his face. "Was a hell of a domestic though. Got a touch… A touch out of hand. Neighbours would have heard if we all lived in smaller, more reasonable sized houses. Everyone was screaming at me, and then at each other. Well. Yelling. It was very strange. Our twenty year floodgate was suddenly ripped open. Hamish threw a glass at me." John paused to hum, blinking with recollection. "Missed. Just. Ed shoved him into a cabinet. And then… just like that, we were twenty again. Fighting like children.

"River asked the two of them if they'd known I'd been sleeping with other women. And they had, of course. They had to admit they'd chosen to lie about it for my sake. All to preserve my selfish requirements for being able to deal with… being me. I'd made them choose that. I'd made them lie to someone they cared about."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Perhaps within another context, infidelity… is not—it's not the worst of crimes. But it's of an insidious nature. Lying, dishonesty… they create fractures. Black, unbreachable spaces. Until, finally… _snap._ Hamish got me in the end. I let him. Deserved it." John touched the side of his face. "He's only spoken to me once this year. Eddie sees me sometimes. Just to… well." He sighed, weary. "I don't know."

His eyes averted toward the horizon. "Nobody was even surprised. Except for Louis. I think he had built me in his head as someone I'm not. He looked at me like he had no idea who I was. Exactly like you did. At my house."

Somewhere to the far left of them, near the garden, a rustling sounded out from within the shrubbery. John turned instantly to look in the appropriate direction, halting his breath and listening with intent. The noise eventually ceased and he let his breath release slowly. Wind ruffled through his curls and sent them momentarily into his eyes. He didn't seem to notice. Dropping his gaze, he pulled himself into sitting, drawing his knees up and putting pale hands around his ankles. He spoke at the ground in front of him.

"You don't know what you want, Clara. With me. And it feels like I'm forcing you into making a decision you don't want to make, or aren't ready to make. I can't do that to you. I don't want to repeat my selfish mistakes. I forced my friends to stay with me when they didn't want to. I put them in positions they didn't want to be in. Because I wanted them.

"You could never be happy like that. You'll be sad. I think you'll resent me. You already said I was making you worse. So the sooner you leave, the easier it will be. For you. And for me. Because you _will_ leave. Eventually, you'll realise I was a very bad idea."

Clara struggled to follow him without the use of her arms. Taking an amount of time she wasn't exactly thrilled with, she forced the blanket around her to loosen, discarding it when she finally had some resemblance of freedom.

"I can't possibly understand how you could forgive me," he murmured as she came to be level with him. "How you would ever be able to trust me. Look, there's Jupiter. Second brightest planet as viewed from Earth. After Venus. Fastest spinning planet on its axis in our solar system. Subjectively the most beautiful planet."

"John," she murmured, asking for attention.

He refused to look at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the illuminated horizon. "We don't know what's inside it. If it still has a solid core or not. Or if it even did. But I believe it's assumed that planetary formation requires a massive rock or ice base to collect its elements."

"John," she repeated, a little more insistent. She put her hand on his cheek and turned his head. As if it were a painful move, he gave her his eyes, focusing as she spoke.

"You need to stop trying to think for me."

He didn't like that. She could tell. A resolute, stoic line set in his jaw. Dark eyes flickered away and he stared across the ocean, furrowing his brows. Clara closed her eyes while he continued his Jupiter diversion. How he could be both the smartest and stupidest person she had ever met, was—if she had wanted to spend time thinking about it—confounding. She didn't know what else to say to him. He probably didn't need words. Words were too complicated. She wondered when the last time it was that he had been properly held. Have arms encircle him in an intimate sense. Allowing himself to breathe against another person, feel safety and support, assurance, kindness. It might have been years. He might not have been able to remember. Maybe he'd forgotten what it was like, to know what it was to surrender in that way. The idea that he needed it, however, didn't really seem to want to attach to him. It felt too soft, like he would not only be opposed to the suggestion, but find it degrading, or an affront on his person.

"... an estimate of around thirty six thousand degrees. Celsius. These are all things I would say on Local Science Pirate Radio. I think people would listen. I would listen." John came to a weak halt, perhaps coming to terms with the fact she wasn't going to be distracted or suddenly forget everything he had just said with an onslaught of science.

Clara watched him turn away and exhale in defeat, dipping his head. Not even bothering to look himself, he gestured somewhere behind her. "Moth monster," he tried without effort, attempting to deflect her set gaze.

Failing, John trailed his hands up the back of his neck and brushed through his silvery curls. They had acquired a strangely ethereal quality in the starlight. "I don't know how to do any of this," he murmured. "I've been acting like a child. I might as well have thrown your possessions over the cliff. Same effect, I believe."

He pressed weary fingers into his eyes and sighed. "What should we do now?"

She had no idea. This had been progression, certainly. But there was now no plan or obvious route to follow. She considered the possibility it might actually be a good thing. The only thing she really wanted to do, was hug him. She could just ask, she supposed, a small question directed to his profile. Thinking it through, she was more than certain he would simply decline. Softly, politely— _no thank you._ Feeling mostly helpless, the words died on the tip of her tongue.

"Did you know there's a moth planet?" John questioned in murmur when she didn't answer, glancing at her and then nodding in the appropriate direction. "In Andromeda? Skyscraper moths."

She took a quiet breath and conceded completely, swallowing down any lingering reply or suggestion. "Let's not visit that one."

Setting both forearms on his knees, he leant forward to gently press his hands together, matching each finger slowly to their counterpart. "We won't have a choice unfortunately, Clara," he explained quietly. "They're coming to us. When the galaxies collide, moth planet with be Earth's new neighbour. All the moths will fly over and eat everyone."

She extended a weak smile. "That is a very… interesting take on the apocalypse."

He nodded slowly. "Millions and millions of flapping wings. Clicking from evil moth tongues. The grinding of evil moth teeth."

"I don't think moths have teeth."

"The grinding of evil moth teeth," John repeated impassively. He waved a hand above them and brought it gradually down, speaking low words like a recital of some old and drastic prophecy. "A great shadow will befall the land. Dust falls from the sky like ash. The burning sky orb is blotted out. Screams fill the darkness. The moths have arrived. The moths have come. The moths cannot be stopped."

Clara couldn't decide what particular emotion she most wanted to attach to this wildly dramatic performance. Primarily, she was just surprised he wasn't keeping at least some semblance of scientific accuracy regarding the state of the planet in four billion years time.

"Don't worry," he went on, like her possible concern for this impossible future was something for himself to also be concerned over. "I have an established relationship with the moths. We'll be safe. Happy."

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Why would we be happy?"

"Because we're together. Just me and you."

"And the giant, omnicidal moths," she added slowly, her brows not finding a reason to come back down.

"They're friendly once you get to know them."

Her following response was rather dry. "No one thought to start a conversation while being munched to death then?"

John offered a lift of his shoulders for an answer while she stifled hints of distant amusement. As concerning as the forthcoming galaxy merger was turning out to be, she found herself unsurprisingly being much more interested in the events presently occurring on planet Earth. She might as well ask. He had said it. "John? Is that what you want? Just me and you?"

A fractional nod.

"You know," she said quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest, "we could probably create a version of that which doesn't involve the extinction of the entire human race."

"How?"

"Mmm..." Clara sighed. A genuinely curious question. "Well, I would imagine if the two of us could stop being so stupid, we'd have a real shot at it."

She could feel him pause with a consideration she could tell was about to backfire on her. "I was actually asking," he corrected, directing his irreverent and facetious words into the reflective ocean beyond, "how you thought we could possibly stop the moth invasion."

Clara breathed out, sighing again, partly in amusement, partly in suspended frustration. She pushed her hand hard enough into his shoulder that he was forced to reach out to stop himself from falling entirely.

"They're going to fly straight into the sun, John," she murmured, watching a flash of a proper smile visit his mouth before helping to pull him back up. "I think we'll be fine."

* * *

 **A/N: Apologies to Americans for that jab in the ribs. Like you don't already have enough to deal with without having to stumble across unfounded insults.**

 **Happy Christmas! Sort of. I think I can almost get away with being a good four and a half days late. X**


	20. Amateur Mistake

**Chapter 20: Amateur Mistake**

* * *

It was two in the morning. Clara had been to sleep. And had then woken up, like always. It wasn't bad. In most ways, it was as light as it could have been. Fleeting remnants that jolted her awake and pushed her from the sheets, if only to remove herself from the immediate place of occurrence. Steadying herself against the sink in the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and breathed for awhile, giving the spotless white a partly unimpressed grimace.

Delaying the inevitable return to her room, she brushed her teeth for something to do, staring into the wide mirror. All things considered, she had achieved more time in uninterrupted unconsciousness in the last few days than in weeks. Far from mathematically accurate, but it certainly felt that way. She definitely looked better. Less tired, less pale, less like the exhausted wreck that had been greeting her most mornings for the last two months. She smiled at herself through her toothbrush. Progress would only be marked according to how many minutes per night she spent hovering over a goddamn sink.

More importantly, she needed a haircut. Almost. It was getting a little too close to her shoulders for her liking.

Yellow light from the hallway flooded over her as she re-opened the bathroom door. Startled, she took a step backwards before she could walk directly into a wall of pale skin. It required another second for her to realise what had happened.

"You… really need to stop being in door frames without a shirt on."

"I could say something of the same to you," came a murmured response.

Good point. Expression neutral, John scanned down her bare legs, paused on her socks, and then slowly returned. Clara blinked with perplexion as she adjusted her height-induced eyeline. He was wearing a pair of glasses. Noticing her obvious stare, he twisted his hand to reveal an open book.

"You try reading that without help," he explained of the small text, intercepting any comment she might have been about to make. "Do I look intelligent? Or ten years older?"

He suited them. Modern, thick black frames. There was a slight possibility she might be running on just pure bias and delusion, yet she was under the impression he simply looked good in everything.

"Crazy professor," she mumbled, not brave enough to offer anything nearing flattery.

"Other than cropping it all down to half an inch, Clara," John remarked, underwhelmed by her compliment-deflecting analysis, "I have absolutely no control over the rampant impulses of my hair."

Clara had nothing to reply with. A little uneasy about where this conversation could be heading, she pressed her hands together and waited for him to continue.

"So," he announced eventually, crossing his arms and leaning into the frame. "Here we are again."

"Yeah," she swallowed, trying to sound as if this was simply a passing, everyday occurance. Which, incidentally, it was.

"In the bathroom," John added unnecessarily, too slowly for her liking. "At two in the morning."

She swore to herself. She didn't feel like another condescending lecture. However, he only held her gaze, searching in his ambiguous way, picking through her silent thought and unspoken words. There was only one thing she wanted from John Smith right now. If he wasn't going to offer, she wasn't going to ask. She had known he was still awake. The door to his bedroom had been slightly ajar, allowing light to creep into the once dim hallway as she left for the refuge of water.

Clara spoke to break the weighted silence. "Seems to be our… unofficial meeting place."

"I'd rather it wasn't."

She hummed casual agreement, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. He looked different. Not _different,_ just… different. She struggled to figure out what it was, trying to assess his condition without staring at him. "Well," she announced slowly. "I'll just—I'm going back to bed now. Goodnight."

The difference was extending from his physicality. He was incredibly calm, entirely at ease with himself. Any tension in his muscles or agitation from earlier had seemed to have dispersed completely. His features were soft and rested, expression impassive but with subtle hints of a gentle composure. Dark eyes flickered with his inbuilt warmth. Graceful rational had now replaced the various transformative states he had passed through over the day. It took her a little by surprise. What was next on his behaviour queue was a mystery to her. But this was different. It was very transparent. His defences were pushed back—present, but relaxed.

Clara realised she hadn't moved. It took her legs a few moments to register the silent and imperative commands she sent downwards. John was still blocking the door. She expected him to shift, but he didn't appear to be interested in standing aside.

She peered up at him. "I, ah… I wanted to—"

He interrupted her wavering sentence, reaching with directive fingers to tip her head and expose the soft flesh on her neck. What she wanted, was more water. Really cold water. Her throat felt dry, replicating that of a sandpaper quality. Clara watched him frown at her skin, examining before emitting regret. Multiple seconds passed before she realised what he was looking at.

"You bit me."

"I did," he agreed, peering over his glasses at the evidence. "My apologies. I was in a rather… compromised state." He tapped his thumb against his bottom lip. "Christ. Didn't realise I was a biter. That's new." A ripple of private amusement formed his features but the expression scattered as quick as it had come. Re-crossing both arms, he regarded her with a concentrated, studious look. "You were saying?"

"Right. Yes." Clara faltered awkwardly. She had no idea what she had been saying. She pointed to the counter. "You need a new toothbrush. You shouldn't chew on it."

John blinked and then raised his brows. "I'm not sure that's a main concern at this particular moment."

Clara nodded mostly for responsive purposes and crushed her bottom lip between her forefinger and thumb, admiring the blank white wall to the left of her. Another moment in silence, matched with an unreadable stare before he finally shifted, John held out his hand, gesturing an invitation for exit and allowing her past.

He followed on her heels and as she turned left to enter her bedroom, the door was shut hard in front of her. "Door's on the right."

Slightly startled by the sharp but expressionless instruction, she hesitated. She didn't know what to do. Any lingering confidence that might have allowed her to follow through on this conflicted option was abruptly intent to be done with her. It dissipated instantly. Frowning to hide diffidence, she spoke at the floor. "I only want to if you want to."

"You'll have to repeat that mumbled nonsense, I'm afraid. I've had monitors blasting noise into my ears for twenty years."

"Do you want me to?" Clara repeated in what was hopefully a moderately louder voice. She administered another silent curse at herself as the question left her mouth. This was becoming a little pathetic. Inarticulate babbling wasn't something she wanted to start attributing herself with.

"What do you think, Clara?"

Finding it a struggle to remain in his eyeline, she shrugged and gazed at his feet. Although it felt like rather a childish way to respond, it was probably a fair answer. He had been very indecisive and contradictive. And more so had she, if she was going to begin assigning behaviours to a week's worth of intimate decisions.

John pointed when she didn't move. "Get," he murmured under his breath, his unemotional manner gaining a quiet, non negotiable insistence. "Before I pick you up and throw you in."

Seemingly working much better with threatening instructions, Clara stepped in the right direction, nerves fluttering around her system. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Her heart knocked against her ribs, reminding her it wasn't a slave to her advice or whims.

She liked his bedroom. There wasn't much in the way of personal effects, but what there was, was rather telling. Books mostly, stacks that were committed in making a creeping path towards the bed. A framed map of Scotland companioned by another of Skye were the sole items hanging on the walls. The wardrobe door was open, revealing his small selection of clothes for the week. Everything had been hung neatly or folded carefully. His suitcase was propped up in one corner, zipped closed. Curtains hid the extensive window and the plethora of stars perhaps still decorating the sky outside. The lamp on his bedside table provided the only light source and the wooden floor beneath her feet was warm, like the house had been storing what it could from the sun during the day, poised to slowly radiate heat through the floorboards in the later hours.

She watched John pick up his phone from the bed. He gave it a moment of attention before dropping it on the desk with his book. Moving past her to the bed, the covers were then pulled back. "In you get," he demanded. "I'll let you keep your socks on. Just this once."

Swallowing, Clara climbed inside the sheets, refusing to look at him.

"Sit."

The quiet command managed to get past the heartbeat thudding tirelessly in her ears and following orders, she sat up against the headboard. John brought the duvet over her waist. Without hesitance, warm fingers brushed over her cheek and then settled, caressing the space beneath her ear. A little jolted but savoring the small intimacy, Clara kept still and let him touch her in this blatant, unabashed way. She stared at his jeans, her line of sight reduced. A washed-out black, faded from use and beginning to fray at the knees. The hems were rolled as always, bunched and partially tucked into mismatched socks. She drifted upwards, slowly, feeling hazy from the continuing touch. All pale skin and lean muscle.

Gently stopping his attentions, John walked across the room, leaving her stationary and uncertain.

"What am I going to do about you?" he sighed, leaning back into the desk, removing his glasses and ending their tenure with a careless discard.

Clara pressed cautiously against the headboard. There was no answer to a question like that.

Joining fingertips together, John placed them into his lips and stared at the base of the bed, visibly contemplating. "Sex," he proclaimed suddenly, looking up. "Thoughts?"

Her insides did a backflip and froze. It took her a moment to come to her senses. "Um," she blinked, startled again and trying to get her now racing mind in order. "You mean… my—my general… opinions?"

"I would rather you specify, Clara," he smiled, shrugging and dropping his hands to press into the surface behind him. "But if you'd like to give a worldly overview, feel free."

Allowing herself to be told to sit up like this had been a mistake. Covering herself with the sheets would have been a lot less conspicuous had she had been lying down. Feverently wishing she had even a fraction of command over the blood rushing into her face, she began to consider her treacherous body had been fooling her for the past twenty nine years and that any passing control she might have had was a cruel illusion. She was an adult. This shouldn't have been a difficult topic.

Arduous as it seemed to be, she met his gaze. "We're, um… good," Clara managed eventually, swaying the ambiguous question into another rather ambiguous direction. "Really good. Together."

"I think so," John agreed slowly with casual indifference.

Exhaling, he pushed himself from the desk and moved toward the wardrobe. The following instruction to close her eyes was given far too late. She watched him strip from his jeans.

"You know it's _funny,"_ he started, throwing denim thoughtlessly into the corner of the room to join his t-shirt and jumper.

It didn't sound like whatever he was about to say would insinuate _funny._ His tone was almost bitter. But that wasn't quite right. Annoyed perhaps, or perplexed.

"Everything I said to you outside this evening? It means nothing. It's just one faction of my head that likes to think it's in charge. The stressed part. The anxious part."

A grey sock hit the wall and landed in the pile.

"But it's not. I'm in charge. And when I'm in charge"—The black sock joined its discordant partner—"I do whatever the fuck I want."

"You've turned into a dictator," Clara mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Yes," he grinned, baring his teeth. "Welcome to the regime. Or would you prefer the title instead?"

She barely knew how to answer that question, either. Drawing her legs up to her chest, she became overly interested in the subtle pattern on the white duvet cover. The room fell silent. She glanced up eventually, needing to know what was happening. He was only watching her, inquiring expression replaced by that of reflection or curiosity. She wanted to know what stage this was supposed to be in his self confessed small-to-medium-sized-breakdown. If she had to guess alone, it had somehow been deliberately and consciously cut off. A short-lived affair.

"If you were in charge," John murmured, coming to sit on the edge of the bed beside her and putting a hand through his curls. "What would I have do first?"

He raised his brows, waiting, dark eyes glittering in the yellow light. If he was speaking hypothetically, he wasn't giving any indication to make that clear. She was becoming exceedingly close to stopping this whole event in order to find a glass of water.

"Um," she swallowed. "For… what?"

She knew what. And it was clear she needed to answer. He was going to stay like this until he got some sort of appropriate response.

"Kiss."

"Where?" he replied, holding her eyes.

He must be playing with her now. Surely. She couldn't tell.

"Here?" The tip of his finger drifted over her bottom lip. "Or…" He slid to her jaw, tapping slowly along sensitive skin. "Maybe here?"

Definitely playing. There was no escape. Clara thought she might have managed to offer some resemblance of a nod.

"And then what happens?"

She had no idea. At all. Perhaps she could propose a glass of water.

"Clothes?" he suggested, trailing fingers along the collar of her shirt, scraping at her neck. "Am I taking them off, or are you taking them off?"

"I, ah…" Clara cleared her throat. Her brain was functioning correctly. Parts of it were melting down. "Um. I don't… I don't know."

"Oh, you're so shy."

"I'm not shy," she managed to mutter, feeling the unavoidable heat in her cheeks.

"A lie."

She wasn't going to be able to get away with anything. Not while he was like this. If there was any time to collect evidence for the notion he had complete access to her head, it was now. She couldn't look at him. Her gaze ran over the floorboards. The sinuous patterns in the wood received her avid scrutiny instead. She _was_ just as bad as him. Confronted with a moment to extend honesty for certain emotion, eye contact became utterly impossible.

"Which is the main contributor?" he continued with a wolfish grin, merciless and baring his teeth. "Is it my… impressive stature, aesthetically pleasing bone structure, man-of-mystery demeanour, or my distinct and localised pronunciation?"

"What's actually making me shy," Clara offered finally, speaking to the floor, "is this unnecessary conversation about why I'm shy."

If he was trying to distract her, lead her in one specific direction, then it was working. Her skin was prickling with heat. He was too close.

"Well," John continued, raising his brows, "if it were me in charge, things would be a little different. Perhaps you'd prefer that instead. Would you like some details?"

Her head tilted up and down. Evidently—body not consulting with her first—she _did_ want to know. She swallowed again, distantly wondering if she was going to survive this.

"First," he murmured, "I would kiss you here." His thumb pressed into the mark he had left upon her neck. He hummed and closed his eyes like he was savouring the ability to be able to contemplate in front of her. Flattening his palm over his chest, he slid it absently across his skin, trailing fingers down his body. He paused at his waistband. A very slow smile made its way onto his lips.

"Such a hard wooden floor, this. Shame. Because I would make you get on your knees." He gestured down in front of him. "Where I'm sure you think you know what you're doing." His eyes snapped open. "You don't."

In another circumstance, being taunted with an insult of this kind would have been more than enough to induce a reflexive, disparaging response. In this particular circumstance, it barely even crossed her mind.

"I don't think you would take kindly to instruction." Another dangerous grin helped itself to his mouth. "So I would very much enjoy winning that argument. No hands. No touching. Just—"

His voice was like silk. Sliding over her skin, weaving its own crippling caress into her ears. His eyes were now almost entirely black. He put his thumb to the edge of her mouth and slowly parted her lips. Her shortened breath brushed over his hand.

"Remaining still is unfortunately a skill I lack," he murmured, tone inferring hints of false sympathy. "I imagine you wouldn't be so impressed by that, either."

Pressure was applied to her teeth. Opening as asked, she let her tongue touch the tip of his thumb and then rest beneath as he moved partially into her mouth. She watched his eyelids flicker for a fraction of a second, threatening closure. It was only a diminutive slip, blinked away and replaced immediately with a steady command as if it had never occured. He stared her down, as if daring her to mention it.

"Regrettably," he whispered, smiling with his teeth, "and I'm not exactly thrilled to admit this, but your new relationship with the floor will have to be cut short. I believe I would be embarrassingly quick."

The world was beginning to darken. Fading at the edges.

"And we can't have that happening, can we."

John shook his head slowly, keeping her eyes locked in his. Clara found herself mirroring his response, shaking her head with him. Considering, his tongue ran across his bottom lip before he bit down, intercepting its path. "What is it two people do in each other's beds, sleep evading and trapped on an island?"

His eyebrows lifted, imploring, waiting for a response that was of course forfeited. She wasn't sure she actually possessed the ability to form meaningful words anymore. John took his hand away. His tone changed. "I'll tell you what—it's not fucking that."

At _that,_ he stood up, putting fingers into his eyes and taking the few steps toward the opposite wall. Clara blinked, struggling to snap herself out of the persisting trance.

"Clara, you know I wouldn't…" Turning, his eyes narrowed in concern. "Do you understand I would never really put you that position?"

"I wouldn't have even said yes," she muttered, not entirely sure whether her assertion was true or, more importantly, convincing.

Possibly neither judging by his look of skepticism. "Clara," he repeated, sighing. "In no fucking world would I have _let_ you say yes to that."

John shook his head and scrubbed at one side of his hair. "I'm quite confident in my abilities to be able to wipe this whole fucking day from your head. But it certainly doesn't involve living out some incongruous and one-sided subservient fantasy while you can barely look me in the eyes."

Clara blushed and swallowed again. Twice. "It's actually—" She stopped, still trying to compose herself while his phantom touch remained on her skin. "We're only two hours into today. Technically."

He breathed out, mostly in amusement. "Tuesday. Know what Tuesdays are for?"

Clara shook her head.

"Being better. Being a better person. Sometimes I forget. Know why?"

She did not.

"Because I'm stupid. Cruel. A stupid, cruel, fucking idiot."

Perhaps she did.

"I have you in my home." John pressed his palms into the wall and dipped his head to his chest in half a stretch. "You're my guest. I promised you peace and warmth and comfort. And I just… panicked. I haven't given you any of those things. I'm an awful host.

"Fuck," he breathed, putting weight into his hands and leaning forward. "I've really fucked this up."

She wanted to reply. She wanted this entire conversation. Somewhere presently elusive, she knew what to say, her own sufficiently elaborated interpretations. For all her attempts to instigate _talking_ over the last few days, when it came down to it, she didn't seem to know how to respond in a constructive way.

"Everything is not okay," she offered instead. More of a conclusive comment than a question. "Is it."

A slow breath left his mouth as he shook his head. "No," he murmured, gentle. "Not really. However." Lifting his shoulders, he gave a fractional smile. "Do you know what they say about Tuesdays?"

"Be better."

"Exactly."

Glancing at his wrist, he blinked and then switched to the bedside table for the digital clock. "Right. I've wasted two hours and seventeen minutes."

Fingers so light they were almost painful scraped over the back of her hand. The bed dipped as he sat back down and tapped at her skin, coercing attention. She yielded, sinking into what was left of the transforming grey shades. Perhaps if he wasn't always so intent on looking at her like this, everything would be a lot easier.

"Hello," he murmured. "I'm John. I like giant birds and guitars."

"Hi," she mumbled back, smile grazing the corners of her mouth.

"Not giant guitars. Normal sized guitars. I'm tall, handsome, mysterious, Scot—"

"Next date, please." Clara mimed pressing her palm into a bell and looked to her left.

Expression suddenly awash with humour, a playful grin fixed to his mouth. He leant backwards, falling into the space over her feet and stretching out onto the bed. His arms came to rest above his head and he gazed up at her from his lowered position. "Stuck with me I'm afraid. At least for the immediate time being. I'm not letting you out."

"Great," she muttered, giving him a blank look. "Maybe you should have added creepy murderer to your profile."

" _Handsome_ murderer, thank you."

A helpless sort of smile crossed her mouth. Eyes shut, Clara pressed her forehead into her knees and stayed still, drifting in the unpredictable situation, feeling John's remaining soft gaze. She didn't know what to do next. Conceding was relatively easy. But anything else was proving rather difficult.

Time passed. Quiet and almost unobserved, just a faraway hint in the background, seconds that were ticking away, turning into slow minutes.

"Clara," came a soft call for attention. "Look."

She lifted her head to meet her sprawling company.

"May I?" John gestured to her hand and she nodded consent to the unknown. Taking her fingers in his warm grasp, he flattened them over his left side, over his heart. "Pure fear," he murmured as she gauged his racing heartbeat. "I'm terrified of you. It's very annoying."

"Annoying," she repeated automatically, her reflexes unfortunately selecting the most descriptively inadequate of his words.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Entirely… _vexing._ Maybe you feel like me."

A statement only, like a passing shrug or an absent comment. Necessity flooded through her. Shifting, she pulled herself from the sheets and moved closer to mirror his action, lifting his hand to place his palm into her t-shirt and pressing over her ribs. "Same," she murmured, staring at him. "We're the same."

The heat from his touch began melting through fabric into skin. He smiled back, adjusting his position so he could continue looking up at her. "Scared of me?"

She nodded, blinking down into his soft eyes.

"How come?"

"You're in my head," she said quietly. "I'm defenceless. Why… why are you scared of me?"

John exhaled slowly, using his other hand to draw small lines over hers with light fingers. "You're making me vulnerable. It's a… an interesting position to be in. Different. New."

He extended another absent smile, fixed in a benevolent expression. "Look at us, huh? Scared of each other. Like idiots."

"Yeah," Clara breathed. "It's pretty stupid."

"Would you like to know when I was most scared of you?"

"Ah… yes. Please."

"Jail. Insisting you were going to call me John instead of Doctor. No one does that. Only a few people who have known me for… forever. Not five minutes."

"Well," she mumbled, surprised and dropping her eyes, but lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "Should have come up with a less stupid name."

Amusement was etched into his features when she finally returned her gaze. Fidgeting with the hem of her socks, she wondered if this was going to sound anxious or quietly desperate. "Are we going to be okay?"

"I'm not sure."

"Then how do we… how do we fix this? Fix us?"

John shrugged, not looking particularly concerned. "Hmm. Wouldn't have a clue. I was hoping you might know."

"I… don't. Apart from… Do you think it's possible, maybe," she suggested slowly, cautiously, "we don't actually need to fix us?"

"Well," he smiled, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. "Saves a job, I suppose. More time for fun things."

Clara tapped a lone finger against his skin, marvelling at the slow expansion of his chest in contrast to the rapid thud beneath her palm. "Maybe… nothing is even broken and we should stop thinking it is."

"Maybe I shouldn't have taken that piano apart in New York and then had no idea how to put it back together again."

The reply made her pause, and in another moment she was frowning and narrowing her eyes at him. "That… that isn't even the _right_ metaphor."

"There's the Clara Oswald I know," he responded in murmur, teasing.

"Well, if you insist on using figures of speech, you might as well be accurate. Do you have an occasion where you had a piano that was broken so you got unreasonably furious, spent a lot of time in denial pretending that it _wasn't_ broken, eventually decided to smash it apart with a sledgehammer because you once had another broken piano you never fixed, only to have someone tell you it wasn't actually broken, it just needed fucking tuning?"

The outpouring of words that fled from her mouth surprised her, the familiar ease for speech returning with immediate effect. She felt good suddenly. This was good. All of this was incredibly good.

"Anyone putting a sledgehammer into a piano belongs in jail," John announced firmly, crossing his arms and scowling like nonliteral examples were now capable of provoking personal offence.

"Guess we should've never left our cell then," she muttered under her breath.

"Clara…" It was his turn to now narrow his eyes. "You got me _arrested."_

"I know. I was there."

"No," he objected, "I mean—you got me arrested. Think about it. You got me put _in jail."_

"Holding cell," she corrected as he started grinning, as if this was something he was only just realising now. A proper smile began to grow on her lips as she watched him try and compress laughter. "You remind me everyday."

"I'm going to remind you every single day, forever," John expressed, covering his mouth to hide mirth. "Why did you do that?"

"Punch a man in the face for you?"

"Yeah," he laughed, shifting to be comfortable like he was settling in to hear a story.

"Haven't we been over this? Multiple times?"

"Tell me again."

"Okay." Clara took a breath and hummed, contemplating. "Well. I saw you and I just thought… Rich. He's rich. I've been looking for a multi-millionaire to seduce. Kitchen needs re-doing."

It took a few moments for his resulting laughter to fade and his expression to mold into one she didn't think she had seen before. She wondered if anybody had ever really looked at her like this. She wasn't entirely sure what it was until he added his hushed and simple words, suddenly delving into realms that were currently more familiar to her.

"Thank you. For helping me."

Ambiguous, of course. Perhaps for their first day, perhaps for their current day. Perhaps both. "You're very welcome," she accepted quietly.

"I still think you might have broken me a bit though," he continued in a rough whisper, covering the shy sentiment and looking to his chest. "Because that's a little fast, isn't it? Probably medically dangerous. I might—"

His head dropped into the mattress and his body slackened, muscles collapsing in their duties. Blinking at this abrupt action, Clara realised what he was doing and an instinctual smile began pressing on her mouth. Shifting to reach, she shook his shoulder to no avail. He ignored her, playing dead. Shaking him a little harder, he kept his eyes closed and persisted in a motionless state. She smiled again. Clearly, he didn't have enough experience with this silly— _slightly inappropriate_ —game to know what was traditionally destined to happen next. Amateur mistake.

Eyes running over the abundance of exposed skin, she trailed light fingers down his side, choosing the most sensitive area and showing no mercy. His muscles convulsed reflexively while he desperately tried to keep himself unresponsive. Another short moment of torture and her touch became unbearable. He broke easily, laughter spilling from his mouth and body twisting away from her unforgiving hands.

"Cheating!" he exclaimed, grabbing her wrists to stop further assault and pushing her down in retaliation, flattening her spine into the bed.

"It's called a tactical decision," she protested with a grin while he used his body to hold her still.

"No." Laughing again and shaking his head in disagreement, John indicated to their sudden positioning and proximity. "It's called dirty warfare. See?"

Amateur mistake. Her trailing, delayed mind caught up. He knew what he was doing. Of course he did. Gently leading her into this exact position. Perhaps he'd had enough now. Of fighting with himself, of fighting her. Maybe his only motive here was to try and make her comfortable, make her presence in his bed something she could accept without conflict. She didn't really know. But they were very close and he was grinning down at her without expectation, without the weight of unbreachable conversations, without the shrouding distractions of his own insecurities. A strange, mercurial day. As always.

"Hey, John?" Clara asked quietly, initiating her last line of defence.

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking, perhaps," she suggested carefully, "that between the two of us, I'm the funny one."

His tone indicated his mouth was preparing to host another smile. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you know how… you just told me you had a really bad Christmas last year?"

"Yes," he murmured with a partially wry edge. "I haven't exactly forgotten."

"Well…" she continued slowly, clearing her throat to avoid mumbling. "I had to spend mine with Linda. So, I mean… maybe yours wasn't actually that bad? You know… compared to mine?"

Clara witnessed the grin he couldn't hide and the tight clamping of teeth to compress another round of copious laughter. She smiled up at him—admittedly slightly relieved—and watched his pointless fight with amusement. Perhaps they weren't too close, after all. She thought this might have always been the exact right distance they were supposed to be from one another.

She kissed him. Lips against his as he breathed out his endless warmth. She felt his surprise, the innocence of his intentions pouring to the surface, and then he opened his mouth and let go, just like that, as if it were nothing, as if all his doubt and hesitation had never existed in the first place.


End file.
